


Firebird

by sigmalied



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Adultery, Basically Nora has an extramarital affair with a woman, F/F, F/M, Pre-War, Use of Alcohol and Tobacco, also explores Nora's attorney career
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15868824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigmalied/pseuds/sigmalied
Summary: In September of 2075, Nate and Nora move to serene Sanctuary Hills a month before Nate has to ship out on another tour. The neighborhood is not without its quirks, but it’s become home. Just when she thinks her suburban idyll realized, Nora meets hotshot Corvega advertiser Barbara Voss, and suddenly life isn’t so simple anymore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Among the Fallout games, the severity of the economic decay preceding the Great War varies. Since this story is a Fallout 4 prequel, I’m going to reflect the apparent economic health of that version’s Pre-War world, which came off as highly stressed but not particularly uncomfortable.
> 
> Dedicated to all those non-straight F!SoleSurvivors out there.

  **Thursday. January 12, 2288**

_When I found Shaun, and when I lost Shaun, my entire reason for living through this nightmare evaporated before my eyes. I started to wish I hadn’t even survived. I wished that I had died alongside the people I loved, in the world I loved. The feeling came from more than just my grief over the lack of running water, widespread violence, and constant threat of radiation sickness. I just didn’t belong here. It wasn’t my world. I was supposed to be part of the dust clouds swirling around the hollow shell of my old neighborhood, and some deep, dark part of me was absolutely indignant that I wasn’t._

_Then I remembered the Firebird. A stillborn emblem of hope. She thought it was going to save the world, and I remember being_ so _skeptical about it at the time. I didn’t think a car could do anything but consume resources and accelerate the economy’s inevitable collapse. But that wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was she believed in the idea that something_ could _save the world. That we weren’t completely doomed. That we weren’t beyond redemption._

_Whenever I think of the Firebird, I think of my life in Sanctuary Hills. Blazes of orange leaves in the fall and the brittle mountains they leave behind. Waves of summer heat turning our cars into chrome-accented ovens. The smell of overdone Fourth of July burgers abandoned on the grill while the cook grabs another beer. Glasses of neat whiskey that sometimes don’t go down easy, and opening a full pack of cigarettes at dusk._

_The Firebird makes me believe there’s a chance this world could have it all again. Maybe not in my lifetime. Maybe not in the next several lifetimes._

_But it’s just enough hope to keep me surviving another day._

**— Nora, Sole Survivor of Vault 111**

* * *

**Tuesday. September 3, 2075**

The sourest, muggiest days of summer were behind them, but the oppressive spirit of the heat - not the dazzling heat that led people to the pool, but the heat that would slow-bake a casserole out of the unwary - stayed behind for everyone to sweat in upon engaging in even the lightest manual labor.

Nate and the movers were easily the worst off. They ducked in and out of the truck at a regular rate, each time emerging with new furniture to carry down the slatted ramp, up the short porch steps, and past the wide open front door through which unwelcome bugs were also free to come and go as they pleased.

Meanwhile, Nora handled the lamps, the chairs, the decorative plants. The cardboard boxes, taped and labeled meticulously in black marker scrawl. The one vase that survived the move intact; a rather sad affair. None of her burdens exceeded forty or so pounds, but she was _still_ sweating. 

They didn’t have to help. That’s what they were paying the movers for. But she and Nate were a certain kind of folk who couldn’t feel satisfied sitting on the labors of others. They were sort who needed to feel that this move and all its associated labors was _theirs_ to claim as a true and honest accomplishment, and if that meant getting their hands caked in dirt and grime that ran with the moisture of wet palms, then so be it.

It was a good neighborhood, this Sanctuary Hills. They had come by a few times while narrowing down a list to their favorite properties. Each time they made the rounds, that stylish little blue house on the way to a cul-de-sac, fenced in by a river winding through a wooded enclosure until it fed a proper lake within walking distance, stayed fresh in their minds like the face of a familiar friend they’d forgotten the name of and felt indebted to.

It was destiny, or something. Except Nora didn’t believe in destiny - never had - so maybe it was chemistry instead. Incidental collisions and affinity, nothing more complicated than that.

About two hours in, they took a break. Nate opened the cooler they had brought along, sifted through the meats, dairy, and vegetables waiting for the refrigerator to be unloaded, and distributed some well-appreciated beers among the movers. Nora was lying on the front lawn, playing dead and indifferent to the blades of thirsty grass poking at her arms and the back of her neck, when Nate sat beside her and slipped a chilled beer into the hands she had folded over her stomach. She sat up to drink it.

“This is nothing like when we moved into our last place,” she said.

“Nope." Nate raised his beer for another swig. “Back then we owned, what? Two folding chairs, a table, one couch, and a mattress on a metal frame. Twenty minutes tops.”

They had indeed come a long way since those days. Nora vividly remembered Nate juggling construction jobs between periods of service, and she remembered herself, wrestling down law school debt with every mundane case she could get her rookie litigator hands on. That was back when grilled cheese sandwiches and cereal were popular items on the dinner menu. It was a little like camping. At least, that’s what they would tell themselves to feel better about their finances.The arduous climb spanned about three years. Before they knew it, their spartan collection of furniture enjoyed frivolous additions of decor for the sake of decor, and their menu occasionally flexed to include dining in the city. 

Sitting here on the lawn of a regular middle class dream abode - _their_ lawn, as a matter of fact - was a scene Nora had chased for so long but felt to be impossibly far away. It was hard to believe she was actually achieving everything she had dared to want: a caring spouse, a healthy career, and that white picket fence of sacred American myth. Even as their own furniture steadily poured into the house it still felt like it belonged to someone else, and their real home was still that cramped, noisy Cambridge apartment with a mold problem in the laundry room.

Nora looked at the afternoon sky. Blue as a robin’s egg. It was so blue out here that one could just as easily develop a desire as a fear to fall into it and float away.

They were only a few minutes into their break when a neighbor came by, sporting a neat bob and an eager smile to best serve the first ambassadorial face of the neighborhood. She introduced herself as Eileen. Eileen Sumner, from the next house over, at which she gestured and had them all peering around the back of the moving truck to spy her husband, Michael Sumner, trimming the hedges dividing their properties. He looked like an affable man, narrow-faced and manner-driven to wave when he noticed their attention.

She attempted to shake Nate’s hand, but Nate wouldn’t let her, and Nora wouldn’t have let him if he tried. They were both a mess. Nate clumsily explained about the dirt between his fingers and underneath his nails, which Eileen received in good humor, and appreciated how considerate they were of her cleanliness.

Eileen had been living in Sanctuary Hills long enough to see several families come and go, quite often departing in different numbers than who was brought in at arrival. She was hesitant to reveal exactly how many years she’d been a resident, which Nora suspected was to conceal her age despite her having nothing to be afraid of. Eileen wasn’t younger than thirty, but she was definitely not a day over forty. Nora thought one’s thirties a perfectly good place to be. She was in her early thirties herself.

When Eileen offered them a tour of the neighborhood, Nora apologized, saying they’d love one, but needed to get back to work.

“You can go on ahead,” Nate told her. “Really. Me and the boys got it covered. Shouldn’t be too long, anyway. We have maybe another hour left if we’re dragging our feet.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Nora faced Eileen. “Guess I’m coming along. Here, hon—“ She passed her beer, whose level barely fell past the bottle’s neck, to Nate. “You can finish that for me.”

“All right,” he said. “But we’ll know who to blame when I drop the fridge on my foot.”

Before leaving with Eileen, Nora glanced back over her shoulder to tease, “Two beers? Really? What is this, the little leagues?”

Nate raised the beer in faux toast to her and tipped it back for a generous swig.

Eileen waited until they were beyond Nate’s earshot to remark, “I’m surprised. I’m used to seeing couples at each other’s throats on moving day. You two must be newlyweds.”

“Married two years,” said Nora. “Our anniversary was in May. I guess we’re just excited. I mean, yeah, this has been damn stressful and a lot of work, but, it’s our first house. Our first _real_ house. We had an apartment before this.” 

“Well that _is_ a cause for excitement. Good on you.”

They reached the sidewalk. When they passed Eileen’s house, Michael reached out to the pair again by saying with conspicuous mirth and a two-fingered salute, “Howdy!” He was standing in front of a flowerbed laden with cheerful, low-growing sunflowers. They were as yellow as his hair and the sundress his wife was wearing.

Eileen rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind him. He’s just trying to make me look bad. But at least he’s made the yard look _good_. Do you do any gardening, Nora?”

“Me? Oh, no.” Nora hooked her thumbs into the pockets of her shorts. “Nate always had more of a green thumb than me. I can barely be trusted to water things on schedule. Never had many pets for that same reason.”

A car passed them on the street. It was an older Chryslus, cruising slow to avoid the occasional child at play. Nora noticed how the children were always headed toward the end of the cul-de-sac, where that singular massive tree rose lush and mighty over the rooftops. The shadow it cast completely engulfed the grassy bed surrounding its trunk, around which the neighborhood children were running in tight, dizzy circuits. Nora decided she wanted to read a book under that tree someday soon.

Birds probably lived in those voluminous branches. _Real_ birds. The ones that chirped and sang. Not like those pigeons who stared dumbly at her all day from the window sill of her Cambridge apartment. They were probably perched there at that very moment with no one around to chase them off.

“The neighborhood’s pretty old-fashioned,” said Eileen. She gestured around vaguely at the houses, each a close but imperfect copy of the last after accruing mutations of color or modular arrangement. “Probably because it’s on the small side. You know, everyone knows each other’s name, everyone’s always prying into each other’s business. Annoying, but, it eliminates some uncertainty. I call it cozy.”

As they followed the sidewalk’s curve beneath the endless rustling of leaves overhead, Nora found strange the consistent quality of each lawn they passed. Clearly, unique hands had landscaped unique houses, but the consistency of tidiness suggested a competition that Nora wasn’t sure she and Nate were prepared to partake in. Apartments didn’t have private yards, and the mold colonies didn’t count as gardening.

Poor Nate. He was just concerned enough about the opinions of others to make sure they weren’t totally left behind. For him that meant at least a few days of yard work in the sun to get things back to the standard.

Eileen said, “Speaking of everyone knowing each other… We have a lot of neighborhood get-togethers throughout the year. The next one is this Sunday, actually. I’m hosting a barbecue and I’d love to have you and Nate over for it. It’d be a perfect opportunity to get to know everyone.”

Nora responded with genuine enthusiasm. “That sounds like a great idea. Count us in.”

They were headed back now. Nora ran a curious gaze over the house across the street from hers. It was in the middle of a new coat of paint, the color of fresh lemon rinds, but by the look of it the painting had been prematurely interrupted some time ago. The azaleas out in front looked worse for wear, too, and there was a Corvega parked in the open garage that she hadn’t noticed before. It was in abject shape. The front was smashed in, mangled. Whole pieces had been sheared away as easily as pats of soft butter coming off on a knife, and the paint job was scarred downright ugly by scrapes running from the headlights to the driver side door. Nora asked Eileen about it.

“It’s just sad,” said Eileen. “That thing’s an eyesore and it’s not helping anyone by sitting out there, rusting.”

“Whose is it?”

Eileen gestured for Nora to step closer and lowered her voice. “Juana Rosa’s husband died last month, in that car. She had it hauled back to her house. How I heard it, she just doesn’t want to let go of it. On her first date, her husband picked her up in that car. He took her home after their wedding in that car. He drove her to the hospital to have her boy, Louis, in _that_ car.”

Nora glimpsed the car again, imagining for herself the accident. The impact, the crunching of metal and plastics, and the gruesome silence to follow. She wondered if there had been much blood. “That’s awful,” she said from a place of veritable absence.

“It is. We don’t see much of Juana anymore. And her boy Louis has become a community-wide hazard. He’s always been a troublemaker, but these days… he’s a nightmare.”

“What’s happened?”

“Well.” Eileen paused to recollect. “Lately, he’s been stealing the decorative stones out of our yards, setting garbage cans on fire, and slingshotting cats with the stones he stole. He broke Karen’s window a week ago when he missed. Karen Whitfield, by the way. You’ll meet her soon. Now, I understand the Rosas are in mourning, I do. But someone’s _got_ to discipline that boy.” She folded her arms and beheld the Rosa residence in discontent. “It’s a shame. Juana’s always been a good friend, good people. We did all that we could for her. She has to do the rest.”

Nora stared at the car, tracing the damage and letting her focus linger in every tragic carving. It didn’t feel right that the blighted roots of misery could find purchase in a place like Sanctuary Hills. There was almost something morally wrong about it, to deal a person who had _made it_ here such a heavy blow. They had _made it_ , after all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to be in the clear.

A primal fear awoke and writhed within Nora, and for a split second, she regretted moving to Sanctuary Hills altogether, because if Juana Rosa hadn’t been immune to grief neither were she and Nate, and they might as well have stayed huddled up for eternity in their dreary apartment in Cambridge, because true sanctuaries didn’t exist and chasing one was a futile goal worthy of pity.

But that was an animal instinct. Her human instinct invoked luck instead, and suggested that by losing her husband, Juana Rosa had served as a martyr sink for all the bad luck creeping into town for years to come. Obviously, both instincts were dead wrong and stupid, but Nora resented the idea of being vulnerable. Profoundly.

The somber moment was interrupted by a cheery, “Hi! Hey!” from across the street, where a woman with short dark hair and floral print on her white blouse was hurrying toward them. It was at that time when Nora was introduced to Linda Parker.

Evidently, Linda was just as interested in meeting the new additions to the neighborhood, and made no attempt to disguise the way she scrutinized Nora by looking her up and down, from her slightly mussed hair to her once-white tennis shoes.

Nora made to explain. “I’m not exactly at my—”

“I know,” Linda stopped her. “Happens to the best of us.”

Linda knew Eileen quite well. Nora could tell this was the case by how they interacted. Veiled insults partitioned by courtesies - a recipe for a friendship that was only hardened by conflict.

“You always seem to get to the new faces in town first,” Linda complained to Eileen. “I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about this time around. Then you can go back to indoctrinating her however you please.”

Although she offered Nora a smile, Nora was not well disposed toward her. Condescension was high on her list of potential reasons.

Eventually, Linda let them be. Nora and Eileen continued down the sidewalk, to the wooden bridge suspended over the river which was in such delightful proximity to the neighborhood, and back around again to where they had started.

Nora couldn’t figure Eileen out. She was candid almost to a fault, unafraid to criticize or praise, and compulsively officiating. Yet, her motivations were nebulous. Nora’s best guess was that Eileen understood the neighborhood in a way Nora didn’t, and wouldn’t for a while.

Perhaps friendship was a precious commodity in Sanctuary Hills. Friendship kept your petunias safe from dogs whose owners you’d known for ten years, kept bratty kids respectful when their parents wanted to stay in your good graces, kept favors coming in and going out like an informal system of commerce.

So when Eileen invited them over for a steak dinner, Nora said yes. If she needed friends, Eileen was a proper, well-established place to start. And no one would miss the takeout she and Nate had originally resigned themselves to for tonight.

* * *

Nora fished a hand into her jewelry case wedged between a few books in the cardboard box it had been packed in. She found her pair of faux pearl earrings, the small dainty ones Nate bought her on their first Christmas together, when neither had much money. While putting them on, she stepped outside the bedroom to check on Nate, who was in the bathroom combing his hair. He had promised to wear it the way she liked: parted on one side and modestly gelled to hold steady the ruse of a man whose life mission was to impress people. 

"Honey?" She stood just outside the bathroom's open door. "Think you'll be ready in fifteen minutes?"

The hallway was the only space in the house free of boxes. While she and Nate had managed to sort them all to the appropriate rooms, most were still sealed by tape and piled in stacks. They would be tomorrow's major preoccupation. 

"Just one question. Which one?" 

Nate emerged from the bathroom in his nice slacks and a white undershirt. He held up two items of clothing on hangers. One was the dress shirt, paired with a matching jacket, that he had worn to his estranged grandfather's funeral in New Jersey, in the winter of '73. He'd been ancient. Born in 1982, Nate had told her. Nora always found it delightfully strange to know there were people from another millennium still kicking around.

His other option was a navy blue polo shirt.  

She sighed. "We have _got_ to get you some more decent clothes."

Nate experimentally held one candidate in front of himself, then switched to the other. "How about I ask it like this: which one's less stupid? I don't want to embarrass myself. What if they're swingers?"

Nora rolled her eyes and gave him a _look,_ but she could only maintain it for so long before they coughed out their laughs.

"Well," said Nora after she drew a composing breath, "definitely not the jacket. Geez, man, who died this time? Way too formal."

Nate narrowed his eyes at her. "Fine. Weekend golfer it is." He retreated back into the bathroom to pull on the polo.

"You know, it's also generally advised to do your hair _after_ you've put your shirt on."

He stepped out again, this time wearing an expression of weariness. Nora approached him and lifted a hand to correct a few locks of hair set astray. 

"Don't know how you do it," he said. "Give you an hour and you look just right. Not too much, not too little. Give me an hour and my shirt's still on backwards."

She patted his cheek with her palm. "You can't be good at everything."

"Five more minutes," Nate promised her. "Gotta dig up some shoes."

While Nate rifled through his pile of unsorted clothing, Nora decided to occupy herself with a bit of unpacking. She found a box marked _Important - Nora_ , took the pocket knife Nate had left on the nightstand, and cut it open. Although her labelling had been vague, it was exceedingly true. Left atop the box's contents was her framed law degree, nestled between two sheets of bubble wrap. She laid it against her pillow so she would not forget to find it a more suitable place of display once they returned. Next, she exhumed various important documents within a manila folder, and then, at the bottom, a photo album dated to the years she attended college. 

She sat down at the edge of her bed and leafed through the album's pages. There was Harper, the red-headed photography student, standing ecstatically barefoot in a fountain as he snapped a photo of Nora, who had been snapping a photo of _him_ at the same time (both of which she kept a copy of, side by side) just moments before campus police would chase them off. She never did find out if he graduated. She would have to look him up soon. And there on the next page was Patricia from history class, with the high ponytail and bangs so straight the edge of a twelve-inch ruler could be shaved down to match their level, humorously curling two textbooks like dumbbells. She graduated with honors.

Then came up some chaotic scenes from a sophomore-year party. Before they were married, Nora had omitted a few photos from that night's record so Nate wouldn't see. It wasn't that he would've minded. Nate was the kind of man who understood that people were people, and did silly _people_ things sometimes, especially when said people were young. But Nora supposed she didn't want to see those photos either. They just brought up a feeling that was useless now in the context of her life situation. They were more trouble than the nostalgia or wonder was worth. She flipped forward a dozen pages all at once.

The next photo was a more welcomed sight. It was of herself, Gina Shaw, and Ben Howell; taken years before the three had any notion of the future intertwinement of their careers. 

"So what's Eileen like?" 

Nora looked over at Nate. He had his shoes on and appeared ready. "She's nice. Friendly." She shut the album and returned it to the box. "Reasonable. I think she has high expectations of everybody, though."

"Well, that's good. I think."

"She told me about the Rosas. The house right across the street? Juana Rosa's husband died in a car accident a month ago."

"Jesus."

"What do you think about that?"

Nate was confused by the question.

She rephrased after smoothing her hands over her skirt. "I mean, something like that, happening in a place like this."

"Bad things happen everywhere, all the time. To people who deserved it and to people who didn't. You can't always make sense of it. You'd go crazy trying."

Nora pushed herself off the bed and stood. "You'd think I wouldn't think about it, wouldn't you? I've seen criminal cases, malpractice, reckless negligence. I've studied precedents for the worst of the worst. But... this feels different."

"Maybe because it's so close to home. It's almost personal."

She drew the curtains over the bedroom windows. The sun was going down and they were about to head out. "I think you're right."

"Well..." Nate patted his pockets to make sure he had his wallet and keys on him. "Let's not bring that up at dinner. No sense in dwelling on it or spoiling the mood. Believe me, you don't want to think about things like this too much."

Nora believed him. 

* * *

The Sumner residence was a love letter to colonial tradition. They had foregone the modern primary colors of space-age form and optimism, instead surrounding themselves with wood and its solemn but comforting antiquity, its conscientiousness of history. The wood made the interior look darker and warmer. Nora was intrigued by how, within a single neighborhood, similar floor plans could differ so drastically from household to household once the owners' personalities moved in along with their possessions. 

The table was set with real silverware and expensive plates. While Nate and Nora seated themselves in the dining room, and Michael and Eileen began fixing plates and drinks, the two exchanged a glance to corroborate their equally surprised - and somewhat unnerved - first impression. They probably would've had a robot serving them if the Sumners didn't come off as obsessed with a more classically organic atmosphere. 

"Everything is...  _delicious_ ," Nate told them at the start of dinner. "These steaks? Top-notch."

He spoke the truth on Nora's behalf, too. She hadn't had a steak so exquisite since an affluent client treated her in the city last year. The steaks weren't even the end of it. Mashed potatoes with chives, green beans seared in garlic. All of it classy, bold, yet familiar. And the red wine, imported from a chateaux Nora could barely pronounce the name of, was to _die_ for. The warmth it put in her chest was like liquid sunlight, the same sunlight absorbed by the grapes it had grown, bottled up for years. 

"Thank you," said Michael, visibly beaming at the compliment. He had, by some preternatural gift, managed to look very good in his burgundy sweater vest. For that reason, Nora didn't know whether to be wary of him or to trust him with her life. "The seasoning blend is Eileen's. I'm just the guy on the grill."

"You make a damn good team," said Nate. 

"So, what do you do, Nate?" Eileen cut another thin slice of meat on her plate with surgical precision. Her hands were thin and graceful, but her tendons seemed pulled too taut. They pressed up white against her skin.

Nate took a sip of wine to help him swallow and answer. "I'm an army man. Joined when I was eighteen, been sporadically in and out of the action ever since. Not ideal, but that's just how they do it these days. It's a mess. They call you when they need you, cut you loose when they don't. I've completed three tours. I leave for my fourth next month."

"A month?" Eileen and her husband appeared surprised enough to pause eating altogether. "You just moved in."

"Actually," said Nate with a lopsided smile, "that's the point."

Nora explained, "We wanted a chance to settle down somewhere quiet first. Living near the city was nice and there's a lot to do out there, but it's loud and crowded. We liked the idea of setting up this... dream house, as it were, for Nate to come home to this time."

"It's my last tour," Nate added. "That's our plan, to have this house ready and settled for when I get back, and we can finally stay put for at least a decade or two. Hell, the area is so nice we might stay as long as we can."

"Well," said Michael, "thank you for your service, Nate, genuinely. It's a hard life, no doubt. You make it better for the rest of us and you certainly deserve a spot in this neighborhood. We're glad to have you."

"What a nice thing to say." Nora spoke whereas Nate could only nod appreciatively at the sentiment. He'd never been one to accept flattery without finding it awkward or excessive.

"What about you, Nora?" inquired Eileen. "That leaves you all alone, doesn't it? Know that you're always welcome over here, if you ever need any company."

"I'm grateful for the offer," said Nora. "I really am. But we've done this before a few times. Once when we were dating and once after we just got married. I guess you could say we've adjusted to it. And I usually keep busy enough on my own in the meantime. I'm an attorney."

"Really?" Eileen was fascinated by that. "I never would've guessed. Do tell."

"My partners and I, we have a firm in Boston. We're small, but things have been looking good for us lately. I've been taking some time away from the office until we get settled here in Sanctuary Hills. Reviewing cases and making phone calls from home, mostly."

They asked what Eileen and Michael did. Eileen figured herself a highly involved presence in the neighborhood, which was a bit of an occupation itself. Nora was skeptical about that, but didn't voice it. For all she knew, Eileen could have been right. And it didn't diminish at all what her husband did. Michael was an art appraiser, frequently commissioned by auction houses and private individuals. He was certified and everything, and had a degree in art history. As Nora understood it, people brought Michael paintings and paid him to tell them their value; how much to sell them for or how much they should be insured for. He could even tell you if you had a fake.  

Nate glazed over a bit when they started talking about art, but Nora liked art. When Michael told her they had a real Shishkin in the house, they went and looked at it. It was hanging on the wall beside the kitchen entryway, positioned so natural light would hardly ever hit it. Michael said he admired how the painter used light like it was a palpable substance with viscosity and texture. Nora said she enjoyed wherever he used yellow. He reminded you of the importance of yellow and how prone people were of overlooking yellow to see the blues and greens, and Michael said he'd never thought of that before.

Nora decided she liked Michael, possibly more than Eileen. It didn't seem like he was straining to accomplish something. He was just living.

When they returned to the table Nate asked Eileen, as she refilled their wine glasses, if she and Michael had any children. She had a son, but not with Michael. His name was Ethan, and he would be turning fifteen in December. Ethan collected model aircraft, was blonde so people often thought he was Michael's, and intended to join his high school football team this fall. Eileen wanted Nate and Nora to meet him. He lived with his father in the city because that was where he went to school, but Eileen usually had him over for one weekend out of each month. 

They didn't talk about Ethan overlong. To change topic, Eileen asked if Nate had any war stories he was willing to share, and he did.

He recounted Anchorage in 2067, the day the first suit of combat-ready power armor, the T-45d, was deployed. Nate hadn't been the one wearing it, but he saw it all. It was like watching an angry god lay waste to a city of mortals. It shredded enemy-held camps and towns, moved through concrete as easily as paper and barely left anything for the following infantry to clean up. Not even a direct hit by a Chinese 105mm artillery shell could take it down. Nate recalled an impact so loud it left him half-deaf for more than a minute, and when the flurries of launched snow settled, the T-45d pilot was still charging in like he'd been hit by a BB gun. After the battle, they would all gather around the power armor frame and marvel at the basketball-sized dent in the center of a black scorch mark eclipsing the chest plate's markings and insignia. Granted, another one of those and that pilot would've been a goner, but the fact that he had survived one made them all feel invincible by association.

They were starting to train the soldiers to use the frames. Nate had been in them several times, and would probably be piloting one by the next time he saw action. When Michael asked what it was like, Nate chuckled and said, "God, it's sweaty in there. But it's a rush like nothing else. You can lift a car like it was a kid's toy."

Nora let him talk without interrupting, even when she noticed him carefully avoiding certain details he'd once confided in her. He didn't talk about how many infantrymen were lost or wounded that day in Anchorage, with the Chinese desperately trying to slow down the T-45d with every munition they had. He didn't talk about the time during a power armor training drill, when one of the suits experienced a catastrophic malfunction. Nearby personnel fled as the power core went critical, leaving the unfortunate pilot to expire in a flash of heat and light. And he didn't talk about the second night after an engagement when three previously unaccounted for soldiers dragged themselves into base camp with their wounds stopped up by bloody icicles and their extremities so frostbitten only one of them would go home with more than one limb intact. 

Nate's concealment of these facts gradually became more apparent the more he evaded them. His voice lost all aspect of excitement and turned matter-of-fact, and he was swift to drink any wine that was served to him. When Nora felt he had regaled them enough, she caught his hand beneath the table, halting him, and announced to the Sumners that it was getting late and they would best be going to bed early to prepare for more moving chores in the morning. 

Eileen gave them her phone number and the address of the butcher they'd bought the steaks from, at Nate's request. They thanked the Sumners and started their short trek home. The streetlights buzzed quietly overhead. Moths convened around them like little pieces of gray gauze caught in the wind. Most of the neighborhood's lights were still on. It was too early for most to sleep, but too late to do much of anything else except watch television or read. 

Nora slipped her arm around Nate's to link them. 

"Thanks," he said. He didn't need to specify what for. 

"You did well enough for me, big guy. And I know you don't like these social things. Thanks for doing it anyway."

Nate made a contemplative sound. "They're nice enough."

When they reached the porch, their arms disengaged to allow Nate to retrieve his keys and unlock the front door. They went inside and Nora internally sighed at the sight of piled boxes, stacked chairs, and grounded wall art leaning against the sofa.

"Besides," said Nate, "I want to make sure you'll have friends here."

"Don't worry about me," she insisted. "I'm serious."

He gave her a smile, but it was more fatalistic than cheerful. "I think I've got to. Better than worrying about other things."

Nate started down the hallway, leaving Nora in the front room. She leaned against the island dividing the kitchen from the living room, for which they did not have bar stools yet, and rubbed at the side of her head. 

She looked at the piece of wall art on the floor, at the front of the stack. It was a canvas print of lily pads, deeply leathery green on an even deeper blue body of water, through which virtually no ripples ran. It was hard to find the yellow in it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wednesday. September 4, 2075**

It had just turned nine o’clock in the morning and all the curtains were open to admit the light of the immature day; bright but not harsh, warm but not caustic. Nate had tuned the radio to a station playing rockabilly. It was loud enough for the energetic notes to follow them wherever they went in the house. While he hammered nails into the walls for their framed art, Nora filled in empty shelves and bare dresser tops with possessions she continuously freed from cardboard stasis.

The bedroom and bathroom were nearly finished. Nora started leaving the empty boxes in the spare room to collapse and recycle later. She and Nate had been discussing what they wanted to do with the extra space, and as of now an office was looking to be its most likely fate. They would need to populate it with furniture, of course, but that could wait a few weeks and Nora felt a little queasy at the idea of spending more large sums of money so soon. She hadn’t even gone back to work yet.

By ten o’clock, Nora had postponed further unpacking to shower and dress. When she came into the front room, she saw that Nate had hung the lily pads artwork above their liquor cabinet, and their starburst clock above the television. The clock caught and reflected the sun so well it might have been envious of its authenticity. 

“Making a grocery list,” Nora told him. She lifted a pen and notepad to illustrate.

Nate marked the spot on the wall he was about to put a nail into with a dot of pencil. “Yeah? All I know is we need eggs and paper towels.”

She noted his suggestions before investigating the fridge and cabinets. The hammering resumed while she listed various items missing from their stocks. They hadn’t been able to bring too much food with them during the move; just the essentials and what fit into the cooler. Nora looked forward to having a full fridge again. 

“I think I’ll go to the grocery in Concord,” she said. “It’s convenient with how close it is, but it’s nothing like the Super Duper Mart in Lexington. Be prepared for some unfamiliar brands if they don’t stock the ones we’re used to.”

Nate sounded wry when he conceded, “Well, gotta adapt sooner or later. Hey, what about this one?”

Nora turned around to see him holding a painting of a lighthouse. Its former home had been beside the breakfast bar in the apartment, but there wasn’t an analogous space for it here. “How about the hallway?”

He looked at the painting, glanced down the hall, and returned to the painting again with a nod. “I can work with that.”

After Nate disappeared down the hall to hold the painting up against potential spots, Nora had to increase the volume of her voice to compete with the radio. “What are you feeling like for lunch? I figured I’d get something while I’m out.”

“I would _kill_ for a cheeseburger.”

Nora wrote that down. “Cheeseburgers it is.”

It took about twenty minutes to finish the grocery list. Normally it was a pain, but this time there was something fun and exciting about it. She imagined the new things they might have to try. The new soaps they might use, or maybe a different kind of bread, or maybe the grocer in Concord sourced their produce from better farms. It was yet another opportunity to start over, despite the mundanity of the issue. In fact, Nora dared to argue that changes in mundane aspects of life were felt the very most. It upset foundations, the given or taken for granted. Made you realize all a person was were the things they habitually elected to consume.

For some reason that made her want a cigarette, but it was a little early for it and she held off.

Nora was preparing to leave when she spotted the mail truck come by, and stayed to watch the postman deposit a stack of letters in their box before moving on to the neighbors. She stepped outside to see what had arrived.

It might’ve pleased Nora more to see their address updated on time if any of the mail had been remotely interesting. As she stood on the sidewalk, flipping through the envelopes, she recognized a bill, a flyer for a local roofing service, and a generic postcard from her alma mater asking for donations again. Nothing outside the typical.

A few voices caught her ear. Nora looked up from her handful of mail to locate the source: her next-door neighbors. Not the Sumners, but the ones on the other side. Two women were talking on the short strip of pavement connecting their porch to the sidewalk. One wore a red robe and stayed close to the front door, holding her arms about her middle in a posture of modesty. The other was fully dressed, had her brown hair tied in a passable bun, and carried a leather satchel. Both utilized tones that gave Nora the impression of something important being discussed, but neither seemed particularly upset.

The moment she saw them exchange a brief kiss in parting, Nora’s instincts told her to turn away for etiquette's sake, but she couldn’t. It took an entire second past a normal response time for her to look back down at her mail and pretend she hadn’t been watching, but by then, it was too late. The gaze of the dressed woman met hers, and Nora panicked. Her eyes dropped and her face started to heat with embarrassment, but she retained enough sense to fight her way out of the mistake.

She forced herself to look up again at the woman walking down to check her mail, too. This time, when their gazes met they remained connected for more than an instant.

Albeit, it wasn’t an immaculate save on Nora’s part. She raised a hand and waved feebly. The motion lost its momentum when the woman’s severe expression persisted. Nora thought herself doomed until the neighbor spoke first.

“Settling in okay?”

Nora stared.

“That was you yesterday, right? With the moving truck?”

Belatedly, Nora found her voice. “Uh, yes. Yes! That was us. It’s a… it’s a great neighborhood.” She realized she was wringing the mail in her hands. When she stopped herself, Nora heard paper and plastic envelope windows crinkling as they recovered their planar forms.

“Yeah,” said the neighbor. “It’s all right.” She shut her mailbox and glanced down at what she had received, but allowed Nora to remain her primary focus.

It was too bright outside. It was a bad time for Nora to notice it, with an unnatural moment of silence evolving between them to obscene proportions. Right before it left their interaction unsalvageable, Nora shook her head, smiled, and said, “I’m Nora.” She held out a hand.

The woman strode over to accept the handshake. “Rachel."

Nora released her hand and kept smiling faintly. “Guess we’re neighbors, then.”

Rachel looked at Nora like she was weird, and through her haze of brutal self-reprimand, Nora would have judged her correct in that assessment. “Guess so,” agreed Rachel. “Look, I’m sorry. I’d love to talk more, but I’ve got to get to work.” She gestured over her shoulder with a thumb, indicating the car parked in her driveway.

“Oh, of course. Don’t let me hold you up.”

Rachel gave Nora a small smile before leaving her on the sidewalk. Nora read through her mail again, slowly, while Rachel got into her car - a red beauty of a Chryslus Cherry Bomb - and drove away. She watched her until she couldn’t see the red tail anymore, thinking so hard that she might not have been thinking at all. Nora slapped her stack of mail against her palm a few times and nearly meandered off the curb.

When she finally snapped out of it, Nora realized she must have looked quite stupid to anyone who could see her. She cast a paranoid glance about the windows of nearby houses before withdrawing back into her own.

Luckily, Nate hadn’t been paying attention. He was plugging in a lamp when Nora closed the front door behind her.

Nate saw what she was carrying. “The mail came?”

She blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, looks like our new address is on file and everything. No forwards.”

“Anything good?”

“What? Oh, no. Not really. But we got the power bill.” She walked over to the kitchen island and set the mail down on it.

Nate groaned, but Nora could tell he wasn’t serious. “Money, money…” He flipped on the light switch for a moment to test the lamp. It professed a weak glow, struggling to be seen against daylight. Nora peered at it until Nate turned it off again.

“I met another neighbor,” she said. “From the house on our right. Rachel.”

“Oh yeah? What’s she like?”

“She was polite enough, but we didn’t chat much. She was on her way out.”

“Oh. Well, maybe we’ll see her at the barbecue.”

Nora started to feel uncomfortable and hated not knowing why. She had no problem with Rachel, or anyone of that disposition. No problem at all. She had known plenty of people like that and had familiarized herself with it to the extent of it seeming perfectly commonplace. There was no logical reason why she had acted like that. They were just _people_. Boring, average people who had better things to do than subject themselves to her gawking, like going to work, burning dinner, and bickering with their spouse over hand towels at the department store on the weekend.

Maybe she should’ve had that cigarette after all. Nora lifted her keys off the counter and evicted the thoughts from her mind.

“I’m taking off now,” she told Nate. “Like I said, I’ll bring back lunch. Any last requests for special toppings?”

Nate gave the question proper consideration. “I’m feeling jalapeños,” he said.

* * *

She’d been in a daze all morning. Unfamiliar surroundings didn’t help alleviate her head-fog much, either. The store in Concord was half the size of the Lexington Super Duper Mart at _most_ , and yet Nora was still having substantial trouble finding everything.

At the butcher's counter, she allowed herself a moment of respite. Allowed herself to stare unfocused at the sliced meats. Some offered pre-marinated, well-marbled or lean. Red, pink, satisfyingly bloody. Seafood was at the other end of the counter. The salmon, prawns, and crab; all arranged on beds of ice gently glittering beneath the overhead lights.

Oysters were in season. The errant thought seeded a temptation to buy some. Nora wasn’t even sure if she liked oysters. The last time she had any was over seven years ago. If she recalled correctly, she didn’t like them much. Too cold, too slippery, too alive. But who could know if that was still the case? People’s tastes changed all the time.

That was something that always got on her nerves, when people got angry at each other for changing. Nora figured it should’ve been the contrary. If you hadn’t seen a friend in ten years and they came back exactly the same as they’d left, then those ten years had been wasted because they hadn’t learned anything new. People were supposed to change and other people were bastards for not wanting to let them.

Nora _really_ wanted a cigarette now.

She didn’t know where all her bleary thoughts were coming from. They were welling up from nowhere, one after the other. She was upset about _something_ , that much was certain. It was just hard to recognize what about.

Whatever it was had gone awry before their dinner with the Sumners, but at the time Nora chalked it up to moving-related stress. It was easy to get agitated over nothing when your pocketbook was empty and your muscles ached from hours of repetitive lifting. Clearly, the issue lied in deeper recesses, but it intimidated her to inquire too far past the surface. It was like Nate always said: it was best not to think too hard about what haunted you, because sometimes it would only haunt you more, make your whole life revolve around a demon you should have left asleep.

“Nora?”

She oriented herself toward the source of the voice, having to scan several faces wandering in and out of the closest aisles before she sighted a familiar one.

It was Linda Parker. Nora would’ve preferred it were anybody else.

Linda parked her shopping cart beside hers. She was either early on into her shopping trip or not buying much at all. Nora spied tomatoes, herbs, bread, and a wedge of parmesan cheese. The assortment looked Italian, but she didn't have much time to dwell on the possibilities before Linda arrested her attention.

“Fancy finding you here,” she said. “Guess we had same idea, coming on a Wednesday to thinner crowds. It’s a nice little market, isn’t it? Lots of colonial charm. Comes with the Concord territory, I suppose.” Linda brushed her fingers against her shoulder. “I like your top, by the way. Function over fashion is always the smarter route when you’re running errands.”

Nora did her best to let the words glide off her as smoothly as water on oil. Of course, Linda looked like she was on her way to a gala, not a grocery store. And why wouldn't she? Linda was very attractive and aware of it. Nora didn't blame her for utilizing natural advantages to her benefit. She blamed her for holding people to similar expectations.“Let me guess," Nora began. "Slipped your mind to change into something practical before heading out?”

Linda smiled, her eyes shining with mischief. “You said it. How are you liking the area?”

“Still getting my bearings.”

“Well, if you ever need any help or recommendations, I’m always available. Don’t be a stranger. Also, the brisket? Fantastic. I have it every Sunday night.”

Nora located the display of brisket behind the counter. “I do love a good brisket,” she confessed.

“So, are you coming this afternoon?”

“Coming where?”

“Eileen didn’t tell you? I thought she would’ve called you by now. Some of the neighborhood girls like getting together on Wednesdays, just to talk, loaf, drink a little. She told me she’d call you.”

“Maybe she did, but I had already left.”

"Hmm." Linda thought for a moment. "Well, now that you know, are you coming? My place, at two? I'm making canapés."

Nora drew in and expelled a steady breath. "I suppose so. Do I need to bring anything?"

"Only your appetite." Linda patted her arm and drifted away.

Once Linda was completely out of sight, Nora asked the butcher behind the counter to wrap up half a pound of brisket for her. 

* * *

Nate had done a remarkable job fleshing out the living room and kitchen with their decor. Usually he was a disaster in that regard; trying all sorts of bizarre color combinations that might've been creative or inspired to a child attending elementary school, but in a home meant for normal functioning people, were... nothing short of alarming. This time, she hardly had any objections. Perhaps Nate had learned a thing or two while living in the apartment, from those numerous occasions where Nora had to assertively veto his creative expression to preserve a semblance of sanity. If he had been watching, learning the reasons why certain things _could not_ be permitted, it showed this time around. She bestowed Nate all the compliments he was due, and together they began unpacking the grocery bags and deciding how to arrange their cabinets. 

"Eileen called earlier," said Nate. "She asked for you. I said you were out and I could take a message, but she didn't leave one. Just said to let you know she called, and to call her back when you had the chance."

Nora was too busy arranging tangerines into a fruit bowl to pay much attention.

One bag contained Nate's lunch. When they were nearly finished with the groceries he opened it, but was confused to find only one cheeseburger inside, wrapped in white paper. "What about you?"

She closed the refrigerator after putting a head of lettuce away, and had to take a moment to remember her plans. "Oh, I'm going over Linda's in a while. Apparently it's a girl thing."

His confusion stayed intact while he peeled back the paper covering his lunch. "Like a gossip thing? Didn't know you were into that."

She feigned annoyance. "Not since I was thirteen." Nora had to stand on her toes to slip a cereal box into an overhead cabinet. She didn't eat cereal because it was all sugar, but Nate liked it, so there wasn't much sense in placing other items out of her easy reach instead. "I guess," she continued, "I want to go because I'm a little excited about being part of the neighborhood. They seem close-knit. I've never been part of a community like this before, and college dorms don't count. Living in a dorm was like living in a motel, except dirtier and with worse food. And I grew up rural, you know?"

Nate had sat down at their cheap little table, whose armor of sentimentality alone had protected it from being replaced. Twice. He was eating his burger and only stopped to tell her, "I'm not looking for a biographical justification. If you want to go, go. Have fun. My only condition is if you learn anything particularly horrific, you'll tell me."

Nora quietly laughed. "Okay. I will. Deal." She turned her wrist over to check the time on her watch. "I'll be heading over in about fifteen minutes. I'm sure I'll be back in time to do dinner. Soup and sandwiches?"

"Sounds delicious." Nate had another bite.

* * *

Linda’s house was a polar opposite of Eileen’s. Linda embraced modernity with zeal, filling every inch of her home with fashionable, future-gazing metals and plastics and synthetic fiber. Her living room could've been on the cover of the latest interior design periodical.

Nora finally had her cigarette. When she sat down on the sofa beneath the window, she asked Linda if she could smoke. Linda said yes and produced a glass ashtray from the table beneath a lamp with a wide porcelain base.

Linda said she smoked a lot to curb her hunger. Not that she needed to, but that wasn’t any of Nora’s business and she didn’t intend to pry. Eileen said she was thinking of quitting, but had one anyway to not feel left out. Karen Whitfield - who arrived fifteen minutes late because she was giving her two young boys a ride home from school - didn’t smoke at all, but didn’t mind when other people did it around her.

Nora wasn’t sure why she personally smoked. It was probably because while growing up, her parents and grandparents made it seem like an important component of good social skills. They saw it as a vice you wore on your sleeve to make people feel like they knew you at your worst. Original motivations aside, Nora was glad to have one now because it helped her feel better than she had that morning.

As soon as Karen arrived, Linda brought out the canapés and a bottle of white wine. Nora talked to Karen and learned her mannerisms. She was meek compared to Linda and Eileen. The way she held her bony shoulders inward suggested she was in the habit of reducing the space she occupied wherever possible, and she always held her brow at an upward draw, resulting in an expression of eternal concern. Nora spotted Karen running her fingers through her straight copper hair on several occasions, although she often left hairs astray rather than fix them. It seemed to Nora like a nervous tick.

Linda and Eileen were eager to talk about the barbecue. Nora listened while eating the canapés and drinking the wine. So much trust had been misplaced in her by leaving the bottle within reaching distance on the coffee table. She was on her second glass before Karen had even touched her first.

“I do not want the Hawthornes at my barbecue.” Eileen said this to Linda with austerity. She stood with one arm folded across her middle and the other cocked back at her wrist, cigarette smoldering between her fingers. “Last time, they took all the hotdogs and left. Every last one. I had to run to the store and buy more.”

“That many hotdogs would’ve lasted them a week,” Linda dryly remarked. "And only because they're young men. Boys that age can eat you out of house and home."

Karen was intrigued. “You saw them do it?”

“No. But I knew it was them.” Eileen pulled from her cigarette and lifted her glass of wine for a sip.

Linda sat down in the armchair immediately adjacent to where Nora sat. “Well you can’t uninvite them. That’s a huge faux pas.”

“Why not? It’s not like anyone will miss them."

Nora seized the beat in their conversation to ask, “What’s so bad about the Hawthornes?”

They all looked at her with a blend of perplexity and something resembling pity. She didn’t like it.

“Sorry,” said Eileen. “I should’ve mentioned. Eugene and Dale Hawthorne—“ She gestured westward out the window with the hand holding her cigarette. “—are brothers. They inherited the property and a tidy sum of cash from their mother when she died, oh, maybe four or five years ago. Their father’s been out of the picture from the beginning, as far as I know. Eugene’s in his mid-twenties now, and Dale’s seventeen. Both are never up to any good.”

Linda reached into the shelf suspended between the coffee table’s legs. She pulled out a few magazines and books before finding a leather bound photo album, set it on the table’s corner so Nora could see, and peeled it open to its latter half. Linda flipped through pages that, from the glimpses Nora caught, almost looked like the same picture over and over again. Eventually, she settled on one. A manicured fingernail singled out two males standing amid four expertly-coordinated rows of people, with kids in the front, the second row all sitting on chairs, and tall individuals placed further back. In the lower lefthand corner of the photo, _Sanctuary Hills, Summer 2074_ was jotted in black ink. The whole neighborhood together was a vision of propriety.

“There they are,” said Linda, “about ten minutes before they and all the hotdogs went missing.”

“I bet the Cofrans would actually be pleased if I uninvited the Hawthornes,” Eileen supposed, then elaborated for Nora’s sake. “They’re always complaining because their daughter, Cindy, is after Dale. Juvenile _bad boy_ complex, probably. Except, Cindy has a best friend, Monica Anders. She’s after Dale, too. That made it a commotion for everyone. Tell her, Karen.”

Nora turned to see Karen swallow her sip of wine. She gingerly set her glass down on a coaster and leaned in as if she possessed knowledge of something truly terrible. “On Valentine’s Day night, at about eleven o’clock, I saw Monica’s father at the Hawthornes’ house. He had driven right onto their lawn, made a real mess of it. Headlights shining directly into the front window and everything. He banged on their door and yelled until Monica came out. Our whole half of the neighborhood saw it. No one had the heart to mention it to Cindy, though.” Karen retrieved her glass and monitored Nora’s unimpressed reaction even as she drank from it again.

If that was the worst thing to have happened on Valentine’s Day, thought Nora, these people needed to get out more.

“Eugene wasn’t even home,” said Eileen. “Karen says his car wasn’t there. It could’ve gotten bad, quick, if Dale had been dumb enough to come to the door. I swear, that would’ve been all it took. You do _not_ mess with a man like Stefan Anders.”

“Stefan Anders?” The name was more than familiar to Nora. “From the board of Banckom?”

“Yes. You know who he is?”

“Know who he is? I defended him in a lawsuit. That case about workplace harassment? It was fairly publicized, if I remember right. The verdict made it into the Bugle.” Nora tapped away some ashes from the head of her cigarette and did her best to allay their confusion. “I’m an attorney,” she told Linda and Karen, nodding to encourage understanding.

Eileen, meanwhile, was more so impressed. “Nora, my Nora,” she said with a satisfied grin. “You are full of surprises.”

“I don’t believe you," Linda openly declared. 

Nora explained, “I started a firm when I finished law school with some fellow graduates. We’re Howell, Lambert, and Shaw. HL&S, or HLS. Not to be confused with Harvard Law School, of course. Ben Howell insisted we keep our names arranged that way because some subconscious association, or whatever, would help us get clients. I’m technically not Lambert anymore, since I married, but I still use my maiden name for business. Always have to explain that to people.”

She paused when she noticed herself digressing, and the others barely following along.

“Anyway," Nora resumed, "Anders came to our firm because he was convinced Banckom had it out for him, that some of the other board members were planning to bribe his regular lawyers to _lose,_ just to oust him. He said this publicly, so attorney-client privilege doesn't apply. That's why it's all right to tell you. Whether any of that was true or not, I can’t say. The bottom line was, we got the case because he didn’t trust any big-name firms either, and he liked our track record. Howell and Shaw put me on it, and we won. Anders paid _very_ well.”

“I can imagine,” said Eileen.

“Anders was the reason why we were able to upgrade from a nearly invisible corner store office to half a floor in a tower,” Nora said while extinguishing the remains of her cigarette. “Anders was the reason why Nate and I were able to afford moving here before his last tour. That case _made_ me.”

It seemed to Nora, without much ambiguity, that in demonstrating the extent of her usefulness the women came to think of her as a perfectly fine addition to their Wednesday afternoons. After her anecdote, they huddled around the photo album to brief her about everyone present for last year’s picture.

Linda and her husband Joel were fairly alike. Both paid particular mind to how they presented themselves, from their hair to their clothes, and even how they held themselves for the photo. Joel sold life insurance and was highly adept at scaring people into thinking they were going to die at any minute and their most vulnerable loved ones would end up destitute.

Beside the Parkers were the Sumners, who Nora already knew. Then she saw Juana Rosa and her son Louis for the first time. Pictured along with them was Juana’s late husband, Santino; handsome and hazel-eyed and as happy as anyone could be. Nora morbidly thought, with some residual guilt, that Linda’s husband was onto something.

When Linda told her that Juana Rosa used to sit where Nora was right now on Wednesdays - until Santino died - Nora really wished she hadn’t, but figured she deserved it for making light of a serious issue. 

Karen proudly pointed out her husband to Nora. His name was Theodore, or Theo to his friends. Theo was a well-fed, sweet-looking man who was starting to lose his hair. In the photo he was wearing an argyle sweater vest, but did not look as good as Michael Sumner had in his. Their two sons, freckled with smiles made lopsided by a mixture of baby and adult teeth, could’ve easily been assumed identical twins had Karen not insisted they were fraternal.

Then came the Washingtons. James and Donna Washington had immigrated from China before the war started and changed their names in a rather salient bid to assimilate. And it wasn't excessive. They needed all the help they could get from the start. As Eileen reported, the Washingtons faced numerous systemic and social obstacles upon moving to Sanctuary Hills. Throughout their first year of residency, people relentlessly accused them of being spies and said they couldn’t be American with accents like theirs. Linda had been hosting the barbecue that summer and tried to invite them, but they didn’t show. Come Halloween of the same year, their yard was draped in toilet paper and pelted with raw eggs. It was an awful thing to witness. But Eileen said she remembered noticing, on every nationally-relevant holiday, a little American flag stuck in their front lawn, and people started remembering their civility. It was a shame that anyone needed to go through that in the first place, said Eileen, but the past couldn’t be rewritten and people were shameful creatures by nature. The only thing left to do was move forward and try to be better.

When Eileen tried to familiarize Nora with Rachel and her wife, Nora said she had already met Rachel that morning.

“Rachel and Prisha Nayar,” said Eileen. “I once asked them if they wanted to join us for Wednesdays, but they didn’t seem too interested.”

Linda lit a second cigarette for herself. She hadn't eaten a thing. “Kind of ironic, isn’t it? It’s a room full of women. You’d think they’d be into that."

Eileen rolled her eyes while Karen cautioned her, “I don’t think being a lesbian means you like every woman you meet.”

“Whatever. It’s their loss.”

They looked back at the album and discussed Harvey Smith, who at seventy years old fancied himself a permanent bachelor and was often sighted outside his house wearing only his blue bathrobe. Karen did not let her boys talk to him. She said it was better to be safe than sorry.

Their next victim of unapologetic gossip was Masoud Jahani, a widower in his early sixties. He was a veteran of the United States military and known throughout the neighborhood to own a prodigious amount of firearms, a small percentage of which he would ritually take on hunting trips or to the shooting range on weekends. Eileen said he wasn’t very social, but never caused any trouble. He never shooed kids when they played on his lawn, never forgot to water and maintain the flowerbox in his windowsill, and never said a single rude word to anybody. At barbecues, he only stood for the neighborhood photo because you had to in order to get any food. That was the rule. Most times, Jahani would let them take the photo, fix himself a burger, thank the host, and be on his way.

Apparently, Jahani had a root cellar behind his house. It was a common target of speculation. Reasonable people assumed he used it as freezer or curing storage for his hunting trips. Others said he hid drugs in there. Others yet were convinced it was a doomsday bunker. No one was likely to ever know for sure, however. Jahani kept it padlocked. 

Then it was the Ables with their spice garden. The Cofrans and their beef with Dale Hawthorne. The abnormally quiet Callahans. Arnold Russell, who owned too many dogs but loved them like children. Glen Baker, who lived with Russell and obsessed over extraterrestrial visitors, and everyone in the neighborhood believed he and Russell were _more_ than roommates. And so many other particulates of additional information and identities that Nora didn't know what do with anymore, because her retention was plummeting fast. She found herself playing with Linda's metal lighter, flicking it and snapping it shut over the flame repeatedly.

At long last, Linda closed the photo album and they took a break from talking about people, until Linda remembered something and looked at Eileen. “Did you invite Barbara?”

“Mm,” Eileen vocalized into her glass of wine, mid-sip. She lowered it and answered, “I did.”

One side of Nora's mouth was filled with the last canapé, which Linda had kindly offered her, when she asked, "Who's Barbara?"

“An old friend of mine," said Eileen. "She lives in Boston and works out there too, so she can’t always make the trip. We try to have the annual barbecue on the weekend following Labor Day so everyone’s schedules are clear, but sometimes the stars just don’t align. She’s confident she’ll make it this year, though.”

“You’ll like her,” Karen assured Nora. “She’s a riot.”

With their food and wine spent, portending imminent disbandment if something else didn't preoccupy them soon, Eileen began to review her list of signups for the barbecue. It was wise to have a list. Nora could tell this was a stable tradition, because the chaos of true random potlucks taking the form of duplicate dishes would never be tolerated beyond the first year. 

Eileen was supplying the main course: the ribs, the burgers, the vegetarian burgers, and their assorted buns for holding. Not a hotdog in sight. Karen had signed up for potato and pasta salad. Linda was responsible for vegetable and fruit platters, and had also promised to bring something called palitaw. The recipe had been passed onto her by her mother, who was from the Philippines. She alleged it was uncommon and entirely interesting. 

The list was exhausted to make sure everything was in order. Eileen only fell off course once to complain about the swiftness of certain people to volunteer bringing napkins, plates, and assorted cutlery, calling it _essential but lazy and impersonal_  and _not something one should be so eager to provide_. By the end of the list, Nora realized she and Nate weren't signed up for anything. 

"What should I bring along?" she asked. "Need any desserts?"

"Oh no," said Eileen. "You don't bring anything. Think of this year's barbecue as your official welcome party. Just bring you and your handsome husband along, and that's good enough for us."

They laughed, but Nora insisted.

"Well, what about booze? Everyone likes booze. That's allowed, right?"

Linda smiled broadly and said to the others, "I like this gal more every time she talks."  


	3. Chapter 3

**Sunday. September 8, 2075**

On the day of the barbecue, Nate and Nora left their house around two in the afternoon to make the trip next door. Nate looked commendably approachable in a plaid collared shirt, ironed shorts, and with each hand wrapped around the neck of a hefty bottle of vodka. Beside him, Nora wore a slim blue sundress, which she had been saving for the right occasion ever since she received it from Gina Shaw on her last birthday, and carried the rum.

Concerning their selection of alcohol, Nora had bought what she judged most widely compatible with the beverages to be served, and would trust, perhaps foolishly, the neighborhood to spike at their own discretion.

They could hear music playing before they even crossed onto the Sumners’ lawn, where Michael stood greeting everyone with a disposable cup in his hand and sandals on his feet. A few children exited the white gate at the side of the house and kicked a soccer ball past Nate and Nora, heading to play in the street where others were already riding bikes.

Michael waved and projected his greeting over the noise. “Glad you made it!” he said. “I was worried traffic wouldn’t let up.”

He and Nate chuckled as they met. Nate’s hands were too full of booze to shake his hand, so Michael clapped him on the back. Nora had an arm free to hug him with.

“We’re here to save the party.” She raised the bottle of rum and smiled.

Michael laughed. “Thank God for that.” He gestured into the house. The Sumners were keeping the front door propped open with a heavy rock taken from the border of their flowerbed. “You’ll see a table against the kitchen wall, beneath where I had Shishkin. All the drinks are there. Don’t worry, I’m keeping an eye on it from here.”

Nora believed he was talking about the painting, not the drinks table, until she saw that Michael had taken down the painting altogether. Smart man, she thought. While it was a perfect opportunity to show it off to anyone with an eye for it, Michael didn’t strike her as someone who would ever forgive himself if it were damaged. Or stolen by the Hawthornes.

She and Nate set the bottles down on the table. They hid them behind the punch bowl and a glass lemonade dispenser with a spigot. There was a large cooler on the floor filled with water bottles and Nuka-Cola, cleverly made the most accessible option for children.

As soon as they had made their offering to that shrine of neighborly virtue, Eileen accosted them upon emerging from the hallway. She was wearing a powdery pink dress and had her hands full of a camera and tripod, but paused to introduce them to the blonde teenager helping her carry the equipment to the backyard. It was Ethan.

They were glad to meet him. Evidently, Eileen had mentioned Nate’s military service to her son, who was very interested. Nate obliged his questions about the different branches one could join. Ethan was most enthusiastic about flying vertibirds, having wanted to be a pilot delivering soldiers and supplies or swooping in to heroically lift them out of war zones, since he was six years old. Nate informed him of a few recruiter offices in Boston he could consult once he came of age.

Nate and Ethan offered to take the camera equipment out for Eileen. She thanked them, told them where she wanted it set up, and relinquished what she was carrying to Nate.

Left with Nora near the drinks table, Eileen asked how she was doing.

“I’m well,” Nora replied. “Really well. We’ve got the house completely settled. All that’s left for us to do is look for furniture to fill some gaps, but that can wait a while. I’m going back to work this week.”

“How exciting,” Eileen remarked. “So you haven’t gotten too cushy out here, then?”

Nora shook her head. “Not one bit. I’m ready to jump back in.”

She gestured at the table. “Would you like anything to drink? Help yourself. And there’s appetizers - well, snack food - in the kitchen, on the countertop.”

“Oh, no thanks. I’m sure I’ll have something in a bit, though.” They stepped aside when a few neighbors wanted to access the punch bowl. “So… Ethan.”

Eileen appeared genuinely pleased at her interest. “He’s a great boy, isn’t he?”

“Seems like it. Good-natured, willing to be helpful. And _really_ interested in the military, huh? He’s sure about it?”

“He is. I know what you’re thinking. It’s dangerous, and I’d best be steering him toward… easier careers.”

“Sorry,” said Nora. “Was I that obvious?”

“No, I mean, you’re right.” Eileen poured herself just enough lemonade for a taste. “You know better than most. I have tried to dissuade him. I did. For years. But, I guess I’ve started to realize that once he’s a grown man, he’ll do whatever he pleases. I’m sure Nate made _his_ parents worry when he joined so young.”

“Actually, most of Nate’s family have enlisted at some point. I think they were expecting him to follow suit.”

“I see.”

Eileen winced when she had a sip of the lemonade. She said it was too sweet. When Nora had some too, she agreed, and Eileen decided she would water it down in a few minutes.

“But first,” said Eileen, her cheer returning, “let’s mingle.”

She led Nora out to the backyard, where most of her guests were congregating. They said hello to Karen and Linda, and Nora had a chance to meet their husbands. They spotted Dale Hawthorne in his worn jeans and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, doing knife tricks for an enraptured Cindy Cofran. The Washingtons and Ables were discussing optimal soil composition for pepper growing. Further on, Nate and Ethan were setting up the camera equipment and rejoined them once they received Eileen’s approval. Ethan went off to find Michael. He needed to let him know that everyone would be assembling for the photo in forty-five minutes, and that meant the meats had to be put on the grill soon.

“Oh, before I forget! Come here, you two.” Eileen urged Nate and Nora. “I want you to meet someone.”

They followed Eileen to the east end of her crowded yard, to where the Sumners were growing a maple tree. Compared to the arboreal monstrosity looming over the cul-de-sac, the poor thing might’ve been deemed anemic, but on its own it produced enough shade for its vicinity to deserve ample appreciation. Rachel and Prisha had that precise idea, as did a third woman who Nora did not recognize. The three were talking and laughing so hard Rachel had to wipe her eyes with the back of her wrist. They hadn’t even been drinking yet.

“Barbara!” Eileen called out.

A laugh still lit her face and eyes when the unfamiliar woman responded to her name. She was reluctant to tear away from her company. Instead, she glanced back at them to say something amusing while tucking a lock of hair behind her ear; hair as dark as coal, yet impossibly luminous with a rolling sheen that tapered past her shoulders.

“Barb! Come here!”

Eileen’s lighthearted persistence managed to persuade her. Before leaving them, Barbara touched Rachel and Prisha’s shoulders, mouthed _sorry_ , and stepped away.

“Meet the newest kids on the block,” said Eileen. “Nate and Nora. Remember how I mentioned them?”

A few strides delivered Barbara to the pair. “Well aren’t you two a perfect pair of doves?” She beamed at them. “I’m Barbara Voss. I’ve known Eileen since she was a cheerleader in high school.”

While Eileen was chagrined, the image made Nora laugh. Cheerleading was an occupation far, far removed from the staid woman Eileen embodied today.

Barbara wasted no time in securing a handshake. To Nora, her hand brought the kind of soothing warmth bathwater did. The kind one could savor, but also needed to take precautions against falling asleep in. She noticed Barbara’s red nail polish, the same deep crimson she had on her lips and the stylish scarf tied around her neck. Nora noticed it all. She found everything about her too striking to overlook. If the bridge of her nose had been perfectly straight, Nora believed she could've starred in a movie. 

“Where are you from, Barbara?” Nate asked her. It was good that he had, because Nora didn’t have any eloquent words or queries at the ready.

“Boston,” she replied, resting a hand on her hip. “I’m kind of an outsider here. I’d like to think these people know me by now, but how can they when I’m around once or twice a year? Sometimes I’m not even in Massachusetts the week after Labor Day. I spend of lot time in New York.”

“Really?”

Nora concurred with her husband’s curiosity. “What do you do?”

“Well, Mrs. Attorney-at-Law, I’m also no stranger to a misunderstood profession. I’m in advertising. I do Corvega for Chryslus.”

“Chryslus?” Nate echoed. _“The_ Chryslus?”

She nodded. “Are you familiar with the Corvega billboard, the one you pass when you’re coming south on ninety-three, a bit north of Medford?”

They pondered a moment before Nate confirmed he had seen it. Nora hadn’t. She rarely went out that way.

“I worked on it,” Barbara was pleased to report. “Chryslus’s head offices are in D.C., but they’ve got most of Corvega's marketing and creative divvied up between Manhattan and Boston. More talent out this way. I belong to the Boston studio, but we’re often called to New York when important deadlines come up. Sometimes we have to spend a whole month out of state, especially if we’re working on something big like a commercial.”

“How do you like New York?” Nora asked her. “Honestly, I’ve never been.”

“Oh, I love it. Always been a city girl.”

“Ever think about living there?”

Barbara smiled at her like she couldn’t wait to answer. “Too much of a good thing, right?”

She asked about Nate and Nora. They told her more or less the same story they told Eileen, whose major points seemed to have already been summarized to Barbara. Even so, she was patient and interested. Or pretending to be. Nora knew what mental absence looked like. Periodic nodding, uninfluenced by the magnitude of information. Wandering eyes, focusing and unfocusing on the speaker, then on ambient detail, just to keep entertained.

Nora wanted to be personally offended by Barbara's disinterest, but couldn’t bring herself to. Barbara’s career sounded like an unending adventure brimming with mobility and freedom. Everything else must have seemed pedestrian to her.

After a while, Eileen had to prepare folding tables and a canopy for the food, and Nate joined Michael at the grill to talk and have a beer with him while he cooked. Even Rachel and Prisha had moved on long ago.That left Nora and Barbara alone under the maple tree to salvage their conversation. Following an uncomfortable ten seconds of silence, Nora told Barbara she liked her shirt - a pale blue buttoned top with colorful hibiscus patterning - and she thanked her. But Nora feared she was being dull again and suggested they wander back into the house and fix a few improvised drinks for themselves. Barbara endorsed the idea.

At the drinks table, Nora poured an estimated shot of vodka into two disposable cups of lemonade, each. As she handed Barbara hers, a foreign compulsion gripped her, and she asked without a second thought, “Do you think we’re boring? Nate and I?”

Her cup was halfway to her mouth when Barbara stalled the motion of her hand, lowered it, and gazed at Nora; not like she’d been caught red-handed, but as though Nora was en route to the truth and she was intrigued to see how far she’d make it down that road. “Boring?”

Nora regretted the question and didn’t respond. She was simultaneously impressed and afraid of how Barbara could stare at her so thoroughly. The floor she stood on felt flimsy and liable to give way.

Barbara shook her head, let out a small breath of laughter, and took a sip of her drink. “No one’s boring, Nora. You, an attorney? Nate, a soldier who’s seen combat? Those are _not_ boring jobs. People just never talk about the parts that matter. Maybe because it’s not polite. Maybe because we don’t want to.” She crossed her legs and leaned back against the wall beside the drinks table. “It’s no one’s fault. It’s just the way it is. Or... maybe it’s _my_ problem, not yours. Maybe I’ve read so many iterations of slogans and tag lines my attention span is defunct.”

Although Nora felt marginally reassured, Barbara had set her curiosity evolving at tenfold the rate. “What do you mean by… the parts that matter?”

She contemplated while tapping a finger against the side of her cup. They heard a child shrieking outside. To an ear inured to such unholy sounds, the nuanced intonation told of excitement, not terror, so they stayed put.

“Here’s an example,” said Barbara. “Tell me something about yourself. No law stuff.”

“What, like, trivia?” Nora struggled to gauge her reaction, only finding a simple smile of encouragement. “Okay, well… I know how to ride a horse. And I’m pretty good with computers.”

Barbara turned her free hand over in a gesture of beckoning to keep her going.

“Well, what do I say?” Nora laughed nervously. It was incredibly difficult to maintain a straight face with Barbara smiling at her like that. It did something peculiar to her nerves, made her feel inexplicably flighty and lightheaded. She couldn’t even remember feeling this way while under pressure in the middle of a trial.

“Anything you want to tell people about yourself, but never find opportunities to.”

Nora had to think about that for a long time. She looked into her cup, drank from it generously, and stepped away from the table to lean against the wall beside Barbara. No matter how much she tried, Nora couldn’t shake her feeling of oddness, of displacement. It was not unlike being awake during the eerie hour before sunrise, like she had slipped through a sieve of reality she wasn't supposed to. She drew in a steady breath, let her head tilt lazily back, and searched herself for something worth sharing.

When Nora spoke, she was quiet and only heard due to their proximity. “One time,” she began, “when I was twelve, I set my hometown church on fire. By accident. I was in there alone trying to light candles for a vigil for my recently deceased cat, Peter. We would let him wander around. A tractor got him. So... I guess I lit him the biggest votive candle in state history."

She glimpsed Barbara’s expression and found her unabashedly grinning. She had loved it, and Nora loved that she had, even so far as to forget the embarrassing nature of the memory.

Nora continued, “Then, when I was in college, I was once arrested for disorderly conduct. The charges were dropped, but I almost lost my scholarship. A protest got a little rowdy.” She smiled with more amusement than guilt, then let her eyes settle on the wall across the room without conscious subject. “My favorite flowers are poinsettias,” she went on. “They remind me of being a little girl around Christmas, shopping with my mother at the mall in town. They’d have the poinsettias out everywhere. Real or fake, I didn’t care. They looked like carpets of velvet. I wanted to lie in them, bury myself in them, and stare up between the petals at the lights. At all the blurry silver and gold.”

Both were silent, wrapped up in the rich atmosphere of chatter and merrymaking inside and outside the house. Nora looked at Barbara. Her smile had turned gentler, and Nora was able to clearly witness the honeyed amber brown of her eyes conveying the exact same warmth her hand had earlier transferred to hers. She hadn't even touched her this time.

“You see?” Barbara spoke at a normal volume, but with the party transpiring around them, it might have been a whisper. “It’s the details. It’s the things you’re always carrying around with you but don’t know what to do with. It’s been five minutes, and I already know you better than Eileen will six months from now.”

Nora couldn’t bear to look at her any longer. She didn’t feel right. It was an illness of anxiety, or anticipation. She tried to drown her nerves in her drink before lowering the cup and asking, “What about you?”

“Me? You think I’d tell a strange woman all about myself within an hour of meeting her?”

She tried to glare at her but only laughed, and Barbara laughed too. After they finished their drinks, Barbara said, “I’ll owe you, okay?” and Nora said, “Okay.”

They parted ways until they were summoned to assemble for the neighborhood photo. There was much arranging, most of which was conducted by Eileen with some help from Linda, until everyone had a place to be. Nate was too tall to stand in the third row with Nora, so he stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. While Eileen made her final adjustments to the camera’s focus and framing, and everyone's fidgeting peaked and shortly thereafter settled down, Nora glanced to her side to see where Barbara had been placed: between the Nayars and the Sumners.

Part of Nora wished she were standing closer.

* * *

Right before the food was served, Eileen surprised Nate and Nora with a toast to them, the newest additions to the neighborhood. They were new friends, she said. New family in Sanctuary Hills. Cups and bottles were raised, scattered patches of applause bubbled up, and the moment it was over everyone dashed to form a line along the tables beneath the canopy.

While waiting their turn, Nora lamented, “I want ribs _so_ badly. But I’m not about to make a mess of my face and clothes in front of _literally everyone.”_

The line brought them forward far enough for Nate to reach the plastic cutlery. He handed Nora a knife and fork. “For the classy lady."

“I knew I married you for a reason.”

From somewhere among the several bodies behind them, there arose a sharp exclamation. The two turned around to see Eileen darting out of the line, her hands scrambling and contorting along her own back until she managed to fish an ice cube out of her dress. Others were laughing at her expense, including Michael and Barbara.

“I swear to _God_ ,” Eileen started. She threw the ice back at Barbara, whose laughter could not be dampened. “I _will_  kick you out of my house! You and those boys!”

“Come on, Eileen,” jeered Barbara. “You just need to cool off and have some fun, okay? There's no point in doing all this if you’re just going to fuss over every little thing that goes wrong. So what if the mustard’s missing? I’m _sure_ we’ll survive.”

Nate stepped forward again and picked up a plate. “Barbara sure is something, isn’t she?” He kept his voice down.

“Yeah,” she said. Nora was still watching her and Eileen bicker, though it was obvious that Eileen didn’t mean anything by her scathing threats. “She’s something.”

He received a pair of metal tongs from Mr. Russell, picked out a few meaty ribs from the pile, and handed Nora the plate before serving himself the same. “Get a chance to talk to her any? Before the photo she came over to me and Michael. She’s like _that_.” Nate snapped his fingers three times in relatively quick succession. “She’s got an idea about everything. Maybe too many ideas.”

Nora passed along the tongs and moved onto the sides. “I don’t know. I talked to her for a bit inside the house and she was content to listen and barely say a word. And what she did say was worthwhile. I like her.”

“I meant more along the lines of, she’s _quick_. Sharp. And I can see why you would like her. Talkers are right up your alley, in your line of work. As for me…” Nate tilted his head and hissed while scooping some of Karen’s potato salad onto his plate. “I don’t know. She’s swell, but, some people talk so much you’re not sure what parts are real.”

That gave her pause, but not enough to stop her from requesting clarification. “Glibness?”

“Maybe. Then there’s some people who talk because they want something.”

They sat down to eat at a bench with Karen and her husband. Their boys were off having too much fun playing ball in the street to eat, so Karen would have to fetch them once she herself was finished to make sure they ate something substantial and not junk food. 

Nora learned that Theo was a high school teacher. In fact, he had both Cindy Cofran and Dale Hawthorne in his math class. Cindy was a year ahead; she was already in trigonometry and planned to take a college-accredited calculus course next year. Dale, on the other hand, was right where he was supposed to be. Barely. When Nora asked if it was weird seeing his students so often outside of school, Theo said avoiding each other seemed to yield the most peace of mind and the least amount of social apprehension for all parties involved.

Academia would soon become a family business for them, since Karen wanted to go back to school to get a teaching credential. She wanted to teach kindergarteners because she liked young children, and the idea of only having to herd them around for half a day immensely appealed to her. 

She had recently finished her first rib when Nora excused herself from the table, but not without meticulously wiping her hands off and asking Nate to check if there was any barbecue sauce on her face (there wasn't). Eating had started to dull her buzz and she wanted to head inside to fix another drink.

Nora was pleased to see that some of the liquor she and Nate had brought remained. She splashed a shot's worth of vodka into her cup, stole a quick glance about her surroundings to ensure no one was watching, and downed it all in one go. It was strong enough to make her eyes water. After pouring herself more she went to mix lemonade with it as she had earlier, but hesitated once she had her hand on the spigot. She wasn't even thirsty right now. She just wanted another drink. Thinking it a more expedient solution, Nora tipped her cup again and swallowed. 

As she stared blearily at the droplets left behind at the bottom of her cup, it occurred to Nora for the first time in several days that she'd recently been drinking more than usual. She didn't know why, but hell, that came as no surprise. She didn't know why she was feeling or doing half the things she was lately. Maybe it was this _place -_  Sanctuary Hills - messing with her head. The beauty and splendor of met aspirations. When she saw all their lovely flowerbeds and lawn ornaments she saw the blissful rest of her life; miles and miles of it unfurling in front of her like a contiguous, glossy magazine spread. And she had best start getting comfortable, because this was it. This was all it was ever going to be.

Paradise had slipped a noose around her neck. 

Nora stood there a while, watching people come and go and nodding to them whenever she met a glance, but none of the interactions made her feel any better. She decided washing her face with some cold water could do her some good, to help set her head straight again. The last thing she wanted was to be caught drunk at Eileen's barbecue and have the entire neighborhood's first impression of her be a travesty. Nate would never forgive her. Or he would, and he would start chiding her for drinking at parties. That was unacceptable. She drank whatever she damn well pleased.

There was hardly anyone inside the house. Most were in the backyard, eating. Nora started down the hallway to see if the bathroom was unoccupied at the moment, and found the light on but the door ajar. Bemused, she stopped in front of it and knocked first, saying, "Is anyone in there?"

"Is that you, Nora?'

"Yeah, are you—"

The door pushed open, admitting a hand that seized Nora by the arm and reeled her in. She stumbled from the surprise and a liquor-induced sense of imbalance, almost colliding with Barbara, who she was doubly surprised to identify as her captor. Barbara brushed past her and locked the door. Nora stood watching in mute bewilderment, still grasping her cup which smelled overtly of alcohol. 

"Look," said Barbara. The silky confidence of her voice was gone, replaced by clipped irateness. She pivoted herself at the waist, turning so Nora was directed to her black knee-length skirt. There was a broad yellow smudge on the side of her thigh, and it was damp; evidence of attempted removal with water. "Look what that boy in the baseball cap did to me. Stepped out in front for a cigarette - for one _damn_ minute - and this happens. Who puts _mustard_ in water balloons?"

 _The boy in the baseball cap._  Nora knew precisely who the culprit was. "That Rosa boy's a nightmare, isn't he?" She tried and failed to contain a graceless laugh. It was impossible with the vodka hitting her all at once.  

Barbara didn't think it was funny. "Where the hell is his mother?"

"It's... complicated," said Nora. "Look, can we wash it off?"

"I tried that. I thought it was obvious."

Nora furrowed her brow at the stain. It _was_ obvious. She had already noticed not a minute ago. "Sorry," she said. "I've, ah—"

"Had a few?"

"Yeah." She set her cup down in the sink. "Okay. Um. Maybe Eileen has something to spare?"

A fatalistic smile appeared on Barbara's lips. "You know, I only waited for someone like you to come along because you _aren't_ Eileen. I don't need to arm her with something to use against me for years to come. I'd never hear the end of this. Never."

Nora shut her eyes for a few seconds. She had never been able to hold her liquor very well, both a blessing and a curse in that she spent less money on drinks overall but could only enjoy them for half as long. Miraculously, she had an idea by the time she opened her eyes again. "I live right next door. I could run over there and bring something back. Do you have a pen?"

"Why would you need a pen?"

"So you can write your size on my hand. I might forget."

Barbara sighed. "Listen. You're a doll for wanting to help, but if you're that dubious of your judgement right now, I'm not sending you anywhere. If something happens, Eileen won't ever let me hear the end of that, either."

"I'm not _that_ bad," Nora protested. "I know where I live. I know where my clothes are. I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were stupid. You're just drunk."

"I'm not drunk, either! _Tipsy."_

"How much have you had today? Total."

"Three shots— no. I guess three and a half? I don't measure every time. Could be four." 

Regardless of how much she had imbibed, Nora was sober enough to detest the way Barbara looked at her with pity. The very worst way, in Nora's opinion, anyone could ever look at her. It already made her mad enough when most people looked at her this way, but it being _Barbara_ this time set off a minefield of frustration inside her chest. Barbara was the last person she wanted to think of her like this, as though she had a problem - and maybe she _did_  have a problem right now - but it wasn't the norm and it didn't define her in the slightest. 

Then, it suddenly wasn't pity anymore, once Barbara noticed how strange Nora was acting. It was just flat-out concern. Laying her hands on her shoulders, Barbara met her eyes directly, and asked in a very serious and cautious manner, "Are you okay, Nora?" 

Nora set her jaw. Out of the blue, the question tugged at threads inside her she didn't even know were frayed, and unraveled, wickedly or mercifully, a pain she'd been refusing to acknowledge. "I don't know," she replied in earnest, fighting to keep emotion out of her voice. "It just crept up on me. Everything."

A steady exhale left Barbara. She looked like she understood something, and Nora thought that was patently unfair because _she_ was the one dealing with a mysterious trouble but didn't understand anything at all. But at least  _someone_ had a vague notion. It led her to believe the problem was solvable. 

Barbara smoothed her hands from Nora's shoulders to her arms. "All right. Let's head over there, you and me. You still up for it?"

* * *

They were careful about not being spotted while hurrying over next door. If anyone, the children playing ball in the street might have seen them, but they were too busy almost breaking car windows to care. Nora let them inside the house and made her way to the bedroom without detour. Barbara, on the other hand, lagged behind. She was looking at the interior.

Nora approached her dresser and searched one of its drawers. She owned several skirts, most of which were appropriate for court appearances, and by extension, the majority of other professional settings. Barbara's skirt had been casual in style, but it was black, and most people were not very keen at discerning between two generally featureless black clothing articles. By the time Barbara found her way to the bedroom, which was not hard to accomplish in a house this size, Nora had laid out two skirts for her to try.

"I don't know if we're the same size," she warned her. 

Barbara held out one skirt in front of herself. From the look of it they seemed a close match, but there was only one way to find out. Nora sat down on the side of her bed, facing away for Barbara's privacy while she tried the first skirt on. Although she was sitting still, Nora didn't feel like it. The room was swaying, as if it were pulling away from her and retracting at once. She heard clothes rustling and the sound of a zipper running down. 

If Nora had been currently in possession of more self-control, she would have refrained from saying, "You know, when I first learned that Rachel and Prisha were married, I couldn't help but think about the benefits of doubling your wardrobe." A few seconds without a reply prompted her to add, "Sorry."

"Don't be," said Barbara. "I think you're funny." 

The bizarre illness was back in Nora's stomach, squirming.

"How do I look?" 

Nora turned around. "Perfect," she said. "Good as new." She reached over the side of her bed into an alcove in the wooden frame, where she kept a pack of Grey Tortoise, a small ceramic ashtray, and a lighter. Nate wouldn't be too pleased about her already smoking in their new house, but she sorely wanted one. Barbara sat down beside her on the yellow bedspread. "Want one?" Nora asked and placed a cigarette between her lips. Her hands shook a little while lighting it. 

"No thanks. Maybe just a draw, if you're willing to share."

She passed her the lit cigarette, watching with close interest at how Barbara slipped it deftly between her fingers and brought it to her lips for a single drag. When she made to return it, Barbara realized she had left a faint smudge of red lipstick around the filter and said, "Sorry about that."

Nora didn't mind. She didn't mind so much she hated herself for it. Hated herself for liking the tiny surge of excitement crawling up her spine when the waxy taste of lipstick, a taste that wasn't pleasant at all on its own merit, met the tip of her tongue. She surely hated herself, but at least she was starting to figure out why. 

"Do you have anyone to talk to, Nora? Confidantes?"

Her voice sounded far away, or underwater. Nora folded her hands together in her lap and stared at the cigarette smoldering out of her clasped fingers. An alarm clock on the shelf above her headboard softly ticked away the seconds. "I tell my husband everything," she said. "He's my best friend."

"Everything?"  

She rubbed at the side of her head with a palm. "I just had a bad day. I'm glad you turned up, though. It might've been a worse one if you hadn't."

"Or it might've been a better one."

Nora looked hard at her, and the way Barbara looked back suggested that Nora ought to know exactly what she meant, but she was too unsettled to confess she did.

Prior to leaving the house, Nora offered to hold onto Barbara's skirt until they met again to exchange the articles to their rightful owners. Nora didn't explicate her motivations, but she knew this way they _had_ to meet again. Barbara agreed, transferred the contents of her skirt's pockets to the borrowed one's, and left the former in Nora's custody.

It was a little after five o'clock and the sunlight had settled in a viscous fog on the horizon, keeping the region blanketed in aching heat. But the summer air didn't sting Nora's skin much anymore. She had acclimated to it, just in time for the seasons to begin changing again. While they walked abreast, Nora listened to their heels grind minuscule pebbles into the sidewalk and pulled on her cigarette without a care in the world regarding who saw her with it and knew her vice, her weakness, because now it especially favored her to have everyone believe it was her worst one.

Realistically, her flippant attitude was probably just another symptom of drunkenness— no, _tipsiness._  She was not _drunk_.

"Is that your car?"

Barbara paused in front of the driveway, influencing Nora to stop alongside her and behold the vehicle she affectionately referred to as an heirloom. Blue, unwieldy, and dappled with tiny scratches and dents. Back in '71, Nora had to cough up the cash to have its engine gutted and converted to fusion power, because continued petroleum reliance would have bankrupted them. The car was practically undead. She sometimes called it _Theseus_.

"Yeah," Nora replied. "It's getting old. My parents gave it to me when I was sixteen and I've had it ever since. Nate and I have been talking about replacing it soon."

"A '49 Highwayman." Barbara clicked her tongue and teased, "Hope you're thinking Corvega next time."

"I love Corvega, but they're a little out of our price range." She tapped away some ashes onto the pavement. "A used one, maybe."

"I know some people who can get you a really good deal. Call me if you're interested." Barbara extended a business card to her.

"I appreciate it," Nora said as she received it. Barbara's name and contact information lied debossed beneath her job title, _Production Artist_ , and the Chryslus and Corvega logos. "I'll be sure to mention it to Nate." Before she could pocket the card, Barbara laid a hand over hers.

"I'd also like you to call me," she told her in a whisper, "if you find yourself without anyone to talk to. Don't go getting drunk when you feel bad, Nora. It's like drinking saltwater when you're thirsty." Barbara let her hand fall away and didn't bother her about it again.

By the time Nora found her way back to Nate, she was a little dismayed but wholly unsurprised to learn he had eaten the food she left unfinished, because it would have gotten cold anyway. Fair game, she supposed.

"Where'd you go, anyway?" he asked her. "You disappeared for a while."

"Oh, I, uh, had to go home for a bit," Nora said. It didn't start out a lie, but it ended one. "I forgot I needed to call Ben about something."

"All sorted out, then?"

"All sorted out."

* * *

When the sun sank below the hills, and dusk draped the neighborhood in shadows to relieve them of daylight's harsh and clear accountability for one's questionable actions, everyone starting having fun. The kind of fun reserved for teens and twenty-somethings, that everyone outside that age range craved again but would not indulge in for virtue of maturity and propriety. Until, that is, they realized they were only trying to impress their peers, who were just as eager to shed the affectation as anyone else. With expectations dissolved, they were free to celebrate as they pleased.

The first event, spawned from that first spark of enlightenment concerning the nonexistence of any  _true_ rules, was a baseball throwing contest. They taped a red disposable plate onto a mobile basketball hoop for a target, and in the center of the plate, the white cut-out bottom of a cup for a bullseye. For the next half hour, contestants hurled baseballs across the Sumner's yard at the target placed at the other side, desperate to prove themselves the best arm in Sanctuary Hills. 

It was a terribly fun contest to watch. Nora was proud to see Nate perform exceptionally well. The only person with a better aim than him was Eugene Hawthorne, who had played a season of baseball for his community college before he dropped out. Unfortunately, Nate had acquired his skill through lobbing grenades at communists, but no one wanted to spoil the mood by speculating that. 

Even Eileen had a shot at it. She wasn't bad, Nora was surprised to see, but her entry in the competition was at its most entertaining whenever she missed. To the absolute delight of everyone without the privilege of having heard her say it in the past, Eileen exclaimed "fuck" not once, but _twice_  that evening. 

After the contest concluded with Eugene crowned the winner, they all joined together to push the tables and chairs to the edges of the yard, clearing out a wide central space. Michael fixed a spare floodlight to his roof's drainage pipe so people could see better with night upon them, while Eileen rolled out a floor speaker and played music popularized fifteen to twenty years prior, back when many of them were in school or fresh out of it and still believed the whole world was waiting for each of them to take a piece of it. 

Nora danced with Michael and the Parkers, who were fairly good at it, and Karen, who was not, but thoroughly enjoyed herself anyway. Nate never danced much. He said he didn't have any rhythm and didn't want to broadcast it to everyone. However, once Nora insisted he was doing a fine job of that anyway by making such a big show of hiding, he joined her for exactly one song before tapping out. 

Then she saw Barbara, who had abducted Eileen from the sidelines and was trying her _damndest_ to manipulate her limp arms to the band's guitars and brass. The reluctance of her partner soon overcame Barbara's efforts and had her looking elsewhere. Looking at Nora, as it happened. Unlike Eileen, she was perfectly receptive to the hand extended on a whim.

She didn't even have to think about it. It didn't take her a single second to slip right into an impromptu spin, their hands fumbling above her head, connected always when they outstretched and came together again, laughing and swinging through the last twenty seconds of a song like it was a high school dance and no one _really_ knew what they were doing; just that they were doing something at all.

Then it was over, and they parted as easily as they met. 

* * *

It was getting late - nine o'clock on Sunday night - and most people had started clearing out. Some of the men and a few women were out in the back playing an improvised football game, but none of the participants had children who needed to be up for school in the morning. Nora didn't know why Eileen wouldn't disband them as well, since they were technically impeding the clean-up. Being a good host, she figured. 

Nora stood on the Sumner's front lawn, leaning against the house from where she watched people leave and tread away beneath the glow of the street lamps. A few minutes ago she had a bite of the leftovers since she'd missed a full meal earlier, but still felt a little hungry and decided to take a page out of Linda's book and have one last cigarette instead. It was a warm night. The sleeves of her dress were almost nonexistent, yet Nora didn't feel a single molecule of cold air against her arms, not even from a breeze. The air was utterly still. 

She saw Eileen hauling a bulbous trash bag out of the house, which she deposited in the trash can on the curb. When she noticed Nora, she dusted her hands off and made her way over to her. Eileen looked tired, but content overall. 

"Thanks for helping get the leftovers sorted into containers," she said.

Nora answered, "No problem."

"I'm trying to get people to take them. Saved the best for myself, though. Want anything?"

"Any ribs left?"

"Nope, sorry. They were a hit." Eileen stretched her right arm, the one she'd been throwing baseballs with. "Nate's a good man. He's still helping Michael and Ethan put away the chairs."

"He really is," said Nora. "Michael's a stand-up guy, too. Smart, easy going, a sense of humor. You chose a winner." 

When Nora offered Eileen a cigarette, she accepted it and leaned against the house too. "So goes the damages incurred this year," preluded Eileen. "Lemonade dispenser knocked over, broken. A lot of glass clean-up. One child injury: skinned knees. Two band-aids. A broken chair leg, part of the dining room set. Fixable. Some kids covered in mustard. Not my problem. All in all, a pretty good year." Eileen brought her cigarette to her lips with a smile.

She snorted. "What's a bad year look like?"

"Someday I'll have to tell you about the grease fire of '68. Takes at least an hour to do the story justice."

Another person emerged from the house. Had it not been for the smoke trailing off their cigarettes, Barbara would have walked right past them, none the wiser to their presence. When she located them in the shadows, she smiled, rueful of her own happiness in parting. "I'm leaving now, girls."

Eileen peeled away from the side of the house to intercept Barbara's approach with a hug. "Thanks for visiting our little enclave again."

"Thank _you_ for having me, as always."

Barbara faced Nora. Neither said anything, initially. Nora was too fixated by orange light from the street lamps wrapping around her features, playing on them. It was like watching wildfires swallow a hillside at night.  

"I'm glad I met you," said Barbara. She glanced back at Eileen and aimed a finger at Nora. "That woman is a class act. You keep her close."

Nora smiled and shook her head, as though to decline the flattery. 

"I'll see you soon," she told Nora. "I will. I mean it."

"I'll hold you to it."

Barbara took a single step in retreat before turning around altogether, headed for her car parked out on the street. 

As they watched her leave, Nora said to Eileen, "Where the hell did you find that gal?"

Eileen laughed softly. "She kind of finds _you_. Then she grows on you. Like a mold." Her shoulders shook with amusement. "She's always been like that. Gliding around, doing whatever she wants. We used to get up to all kinds of trouble in high school. She brought the captain of the varsity football team to prom, you know. Imagine that. You'd think I would've been jealous of her, me being a cheerleader at the time, but I was already with Michael. We were high school sweethearts."

The image was precious, but something didn't fit. "What about Ethan?"

"I wasn't always with Michael." Eileen looked down at the grass and skated the toe of her shoe over an uneven patch. "But I should've been. Sometimes, you get on a path you think is right, but it's not. And people aren't always lucky enough to find their way back. To my credit, I was usually smart about the boys I liked. Michael was in the running for valedictorian. He didn't make it, but that's fine by me. Valedictorians are the sort who do whatever they're supposed to all their life, anyway. Who needs that?"

"I don't know." Nora smiled at her. "I think you like running the show."

"Michael does what he's told but he's not spineless about it. I love a man who tells me yes, but I couldn't stand a man who'd never tell me no."

They were quiet for a time. Nora pensively rotated her cigarette between her fingers and spoke her mind, "Barbara isn't married, is she?"

"No," said Eileen. "She says she's got better things to do."

They laughed about that and didn't talk again for a while. Nora didn't lift her cigarette again, either. She let it burn until the head grew pale and long, until ashes rained onto the lawn of their own accord, settling between the blades where moisture seeped. 

And Nora decided she wouldn't hate herself anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Monday. September 9, 2075**

Nora tucked the teal telephone receiver between her cheek and shoulder, picked up the rotary base, and carried the unit to the other side of the bedroom while guiding her fingers along the cord so it wouldn’t catch on the furniture.

“He’s raising hell,” said Linda, who was on the line. “He’s livid. He thinks someone poisoned it last night.”

Three minutes ago, at approximately seven-thirty in the morning, Linda Parker called Nora with some troubling news. Apparently, Arnold Russell had woken up bright and early to greet his beloved dogs only to find one of them lying dead as dirt in its wooden kennel, and the rest of the pack noticeably somber and prone to pitiful whines.

A furrow creased Nora’s brow as she sat down at the edge of her bed and slipped on her shoes. “How can he tell? What if the dog was just really sick?”

“Russell said he found the poor mutt lying its own vomit. He said it was healthy as ever yesterday, before the barbecue.”

“That’s terrible,” said Nora, and she meant it. “Who would do something like that?” With her shoes on, she rose from the bed, adjusted the receiver against her cheek, and parted the curtains. Mr. Russell’s residence was not quite visible from her bedroom window. She could only see Nate gardening in the front yard. He had started working early to evade the heat but was quickly running out of time.

“I don’t know, but Arnold’s determined to find out.”

“Did he call the police?” She spied Nate transferring pansies from a plastic crate to the dark bed of tilled soil.

“We’ve been trying to get him to do that,” said Linda. “But he doesn’t want to. Police make Baker nervous. Maybe it's the robots they always have with them.”

“Well, get Baker out of the house for a while.”

“And put him where, exactly?”

“I don’t know.” Nora sighed in fatigue. “I was told that he’s weird, not a child. That said, send him to the gas station down the road for a gum ball if you have to.”

Linda hummed. “Believe me, I would have recommended that and have been done with it if things were that simple. But with Baker… there’s something else going on. A few screws loose, I’d say.”

Nora watched Nate steadily lay the pansies in tidy rows, one after another. Some were purple, others yellow or streaked with white and magenta. Abruptly, she had an idea. Nate certainly wasn’t going to like it, but Nora was pressed for time and she didn’t want to leave home without helping in some fashion. Having the guilt hang over her all day just wouldn't do.

“Tell Russell to send him over here for a while," said Nora.

Linda hesitated to respond. “Are you sure that’s okay?”

“Of course. I saw him around Eileen’s house yesterday and he didn’t cause any trouble. I’m sure we can put him up for a few hours.”

“Well, okay then. I’ll give Russell a call.”

Nora hung up, set the telephone down on her dresser, and opened the window. “Hey, Nate? _Nate.”_

He looked up from their garden to-be and wiped his damp hairline with a forearm. “Huh?”

“I’m going to the office for a half-day, but one of the neighbors might be coming by. Glen Baker.”

Nate’s visible confusion was only intensified by the way he squinted in the sun. "What?" He strode over to the window and leaned an arm against the side of the house. "Really? Right now?” Behind him, the lawn was a mess. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Russell’s dogs,” said Nora. “He thinks somebody killed one of them, but Russell’s only going to have the police over for a report if he can get Baker out of the house while they’re around. I guess Glen gets really jumpy around cops.”

“Oh, so you dump the jumpy man on me? What if he’s jumpy around cops for a good reason?”

“It’s broad daylight,” she insisted. “He’s not going to do anything. Just put out a lawn chair and hand him a beer. He probably won’t even talk much.”

Nate blinked and shook his head. “I don’t like getting too involved with other people’s business. Haven't you ever heard the saying, ‘good fences make good neighbors’?”

Nora narrowed her eyes and knowingly accused him, “You never read the whole poem, did you?”

“No, why?”

“Come _on,_ Nate. We see people who need help and we _help_ them. It’s what we do.”

He stood there thinking hard, deciding. “Okay,” Nate conceded. “Okay, fine. But it better be just for an hour or so.”

Nora smiled pleasantly at him and shut the window. With that issue settled, she gathered her things: her keys, wallet, a three-ringed binder from the firm. And Barbara’s skirt, tucked into an inconspicuous bag at the bottom of her sock drawer.

* * *

On her way to the office, Nora took the skirt to a dry cleaner she had loyally brought her custom to for almost a decade. For the first three of those years, her favoritism hadn’t been founded in anything particularly quantifiable aside from locational convenience. They also had candy and Nuka-Cola machines set at forgiving prices, which didn’t hurt. These days, her favoritism subsisted off a long-term acquaintanceship with the manager and several employees, who were always glad to see Nora bring by her work suits for court appearances or her dresses and coats for meetings with important clients.

Their business was somewhat out of her way now, but Nora couldn’t imagine leaving the skirt with anyone she didn’t know and trust.

The law firm of Howell, Lambert, and Shaw was located on the fourteenth floor of a tower in central Boston, part of a cluster of six other buildings crammed into the space of two blocks. They had all been built within five years of each other, resulting in a common architectural style that occasionally incited confusion for clients. Nora had learned to say, “It’s the big blue one,” to anyone exhibiting the slightest lack of confidence in their navigational ability. 

They didn’t have the entire floor to themselves. Upon emerging from the elevator, one would be confronted by the sight of two office fronts, the first of which had tall glass doors with shiny steel handles, and the name of a small but respectable law firm painted on the glass.

The entrance to the second business on the fourteenth floor greeted visitors with a massive wall of raw particle board, into which a door had been sawed and hinges and locks installed. In vain, perhaps. It wasn’t as though anyone in their right mind would premeditate theft of their product. Whenever Nora passed their door she was possessed by an intense urge to kick it down, just to see, just to prove, that they needn’t have bothered in the first place. And every time by some miracle she managed to resist the urge. 

The company was Mahoney Kent (they had stapled a print-out of this name above their particle board threshold), a fashion upstart who designed and printed a line of youth-oriented street wear. Nora had yet to consider herself too old to understand the young people, thinking she was _at least_ five more years away from that, but Mahoney Kent alone were almost enough to convince her otherwise. Primarily because the sentiments inscribed on their clothes were absolutely inscrutable. At first, Nora and her partners presumed the origin of the company was foreign and dealing with severe language barrier and translation issues, but no, the founders of Mahoney Kent were home-grown Americans with college degrees.

They left Mahoney Kent alone.

Meanwhile, Howell, Lambert, and Shaw defied the humble space they occupied by exuding a highly professional climate. They aspired to make clients feel important and respected. First impressions and hospitality, Nora and her partners had agreed, were just as vital to their survival as a fledgling firm as their skill as attorneys. For that reason, they did not eat inside the firm so they would never attract pests. They did not personalize their offices beyond such generic objects as framed family portraits so they would not offend anyone with eccentric tastes. And they did not smoke inside the firm - originally a courtesy extended to their Mahoney Kent neighbors because one its founders had asthma - to convey mindfulness and well-being. Ultimately, they prided themselves in being boring and conventional, because that was what their clients wanted.

By the time Nora passed the front desk occupied by one of the secretaries they hired last month, Gina Shaw was already waiting to welcome her.

“Nora! You’re back.”

Gina caught Nora in a loose embrace. The top of her head, not counting the bun she pulled her hair into, barely cleared Nora’s shoulder. Yet she had, perhaps, the largest and boldest presence of anyone on the floor. Nora learned this the hard way when she befriended Gina during their first year of law school. After an exam, the two of them got so drunk that Nora made fun of her stature by _kneeling_ to talk to her, at which point Gina issued her the first and only black eye of her life.

“I’m back,” Nora affirmed. She retrieved a few folders from her binder and handed them to Gina. “Got these all marked up and ready to go, as prescribed. Show Ben the one about the country club brawl as soon as you can. I think I found a _really_ good angle. His client Mr. Bermuda Shorts will love it."

Gina reached into her breast pocket to take out a pair of black-rimmed glasses and slid them on. While following Nora to her office, she opened the folder and skimmed some of the notations. “So is the house everything you dreamed it would be? Take any pictures for us to see yet? Any weird neighbors?”

“Yes, no, and yes. But they’re nice. I like them.”

“Sounds like you haven’t seen much of them, in that case. Good neighbors, you never notice. Bad neighbors, you always notice.”

“Actually, they’re very sociable,” said Nora. She unlocked the door to her office - a glorified cubicle, really - framed by temporary woodgrain laminate walls and dropped her bag onto a chair. “Nate and I had dinner with the couple next door on our first night there. And yesterday the whole neighborhood came together for a barbecue. It was a hell of a time.”

“Really?" Gina asked. She closed the folder, tucked it beneath her arm, and leaned against the door frame. "Well, then. Sounds like bona fide paradise. Meanwhile,I'm enjoying the spoils of the Anders case in the form of lamb roasts every Friday night for the rest of my natural life. Where is my ambition?”

Nora laughed as she sat down at her walnut desk. “On the contrary, that could turn out to be an even better investment than mine.”

Gina appeared as if she were about to ask what Nora meant when Ben Howell knocked on the open door and admitted his broad frame. Ben looked how he always did. Short black hair - streaked with nascent gray at his temples - combed and well-waxed, pretty blue eyes, and a shadow around his jaw evidencing a perpetual uphill battle with a beard fighting to realize its potential. Years ago, Nora almost dated him. Ben had certainly been interested in _her_ at the time. The fatal problem with Ben was his college-era tendency to see many girls, one of which had been a friend of Nora's. In the end, she had decided to abide the ancient code of not dating the exes of close friends. Ben had always been his own worst enemy.

“Heard you’d be coming in today," said Ben. "It’s about time. You've got a lot to catch up on.” A thick ream of paper left his hand and thudded onto the surface of Nora's desk, but Ben couldn't keep a straight face once he saw sheer horror draining her skin of color. Before Nora's imminent cardiac arrest, he barked out a laugh and said, "I'm just screwing with you. Look." He flipped through the sheets to show her they were all blank, save for the highly convincing top page. "Took these from the supply closet."

She lurched forward in her seat to slam her fist into his shoulder and felt pleased with herself when he winced. "Fuck you, Howell."

"All right, people," said Gina. "Professional setting. No slugging, no cursing. We've got appointments coming in today."

They left her alone and closed the door. Nora didn't set to work immediately. Rather, she reclined in her chair and let herself swivel gently from side to side, her hands folded over her middle as she stared at nothing. She felt happy. She didn't know why, but she wasn't interested in dissecting the causes if it meant dispelling the mood. It was a simple pleasure, a contentment with existence. Her heart felt light and heavy at once.

Of course, she couldn't help thinking about it anyway.

The feeling possibly stemmed from her camaraderie with her coworkers, a gratefulness for the privilege of _selecting_ who to go into business with, and to be her own boss at that. Well, co-boss. There were technically two other co-bosses to consult, but they were both fine people. At present, Nora was particularly happy for Ben, who was engaged and due to marry his fiancée in January. He was applying his influx of income to a fantastic wedding and some home renovations. Gina went through too many boyfriends to keep track of, but that was how she liked it, and the love of Gina's life was gourmet food anyway. Her lamb roasts would outplay her significant others in consistency, too.

As for Nora, she was doing all right for herself. She had her reservations about Sanctuary Hills, her woes and her fears, but she would never be alone. Not even once Nate left. Her neighbors would be there, her firm partners would be there, and... Barbara would be there.

Nora reached for the pencil holder on her desk and plucked a highlighter from it. She intended to start working at that moment, but then she saw the telephone at the corner of her desk and started to turn the highlighter over and over in her hands as she ruminated. Within a minute, Nora had a business card laid out on her desk for reference as she pulled digits into the rotary. She held the receiver to her ear and waited, unnatural tension coiling in her gut. 

A secretary answered. Barbara wasn't available at the moment, or simply _out_ as the secretary eloquently phrased it. Nora opted to leave a message. She gave her name and both her work and home phone numbers, requesting that Barbara return her call whenever she could. The secretary agreed to pass on her message and the phone call was over, leaving Nora to uncap her highlighter and begin working while tumorous unease grew from her mirth.

* * * 

When Nora came home, she saw that Nate had finished the flowerbed. The pansies nodded and waved to her in a light breeze as she crouched before them as well as she could in a pencil skirt, and reached out to gently cradle one's velvety magenta petals with her fingertips. They smelled sweet and loamy. She rose and noticed a lawn chair sitting near the porch. With a smirk, she folded and brought it around to the side of the house. 

Nora heard the shower running while heading down the hallway. She took off her shoes, rummaged through her closet for something casual, changed, and brought a folder from work with her to the living room where she turned on the television. The show it was tuned to went unwatched. Its role was merely background noise, which Nora was accustomed to working in the presence of. It reminded her of her office's permeability to the city soundscape; all the cars and people clamoring through Boston's veins, and the mechanical hum of office equipment droning on in concert. 

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. Nora dropped her stack of papers onto the seat next to her, leapt up to lower the volume on the television, and answered the phone in the kitchen. 

It was not Barbara, as Nora had been wishful of. It was Linda. She was calling to thank Nate for keeping Glen Baker company while Russell filed a report with the police. Nora promised to relay her message.

"Do you know anything about it?" Nora asked her. "About what really happened to the dog?"

"Nothing, really," said Linda. "Only that it's interesting how _one_ dog died and not more. Russell says not a single one aside from the dead showed any signs of illness. If someone really wanted to wreak havoc, they could have poisoned the lot of them if they dropped enough of the bad stuff into Russell's yard. Could've done it easily, too, with everyone at the barbecue all evening. If you ask me, this was either someone's warning or a freak accident."

"A warning? Does Russell have enemies?"

"Not that anyone knows of. That's why it's so weird."

"What does Baker make of it?" Nora asked with a laugh. "Aliens? Government?"

"Don't be mean, Nora. Didn't think you had a streak in you."

"Sorry, just making light. Anyway, where's Eileen on this? I thought she liked getting in the middle of things."

"She does," said Linda, "but she's sitting this one out, on account of her and Russell not getting along too swimmingly. I told her a reason like that made her a prime suspect, and she hung up on me. I was only joking. Well, _I_ thought it was funny."

"Don't be mean, Linda."

"Except, I _definitely_  have a streak in me."

That made Nora laugh. She hadn't liked Linda in the past, but she was gradually warming up to her and the way she conducted herself without apology. It wasn't strictly an asset to her character, however. Linda was so frank with her opinions she sometimes wore ignorance like a badge, but at least if someone corrected her, she learned. The same couldn't be said of a lot of people.

When Nora noticed Nate emerging into the living room, she waved at him and said goodbye to Linda.  

"Who was that?" he asked.

"Linda," said Nora. "She meant to thank you for keeping an eye on Glen. It was very neighborly of you."

He rolled his eyes, but nodded. "Yeah. It didn't turn out to be that bad. Like you said. While I was doing the yard he sat in a chair nearby, asking me if I believed in _visitors_. Of presumably the extraterrestrial variety."

"What'd you tell him?"

"I told him I'm not in the habit of discounting something's existence just because I've never seen it myself."

Nora held back a laugh. "What a diplomat. I should get you a job at the firm."

"I think I might have even liked Baker," said Nate, "if he had accepted the beer I offered him. He said he didn't drink. He said he liked keeping his mind sharp and unmolested." He chuckled. "Maybe I don't mind a man who believes in aliens, but a man who doesn't drink? That, I can't trust wholeheartedly. He's either a recovering alcoholic or he's got something much worse to hide."

"In vino veritas," remarked Nora. "But don't be so mean, Nate."

* * *

It wasn't until after dinner that Barbara called. Nate had been watching baseball in the living room, and Nora had retired to the bedroom to continue reviewing case notes. She enjoyed baseball more than background noise permitted and would easily be distracted by it had she stayed. Albeit, she kept the door ajar to monitor who was winning at all times.

Nora lamented how close to the lamp she needed stay to read her documents without experiencing strain. Her eyesight wasn't exactly hawk-like in dim light anymore, not like it had been all the way through her twenties. She gave herself three years tops before reading glasses would become a necessity and dreaded the inevitable optometrist appointment. She wondered if she'd look any good in glasses. Both of her parents wore glasses and they looked all right in them. People always told Nora she looked like her mother, who'd been wearing glasses since she was forty, but she was an obligate wearer and paid special attention to what frame styles suited her face, because at that point it was like choosing what kind of nose she wanted to wear, and sometimes that alone made all the difference. As of the present Nora hadn't the slightest clue about what frames would best suit her, and if pressed to make a hasty decision, she would play it safe by imitating her mother.

The phone rang and startled Nora out of her brooding. Its first ring had barely tapered off by the time she leaned outside the bedroom to tell Nate, "I got it," and was met by his semi-attentive reply of, "Thanks!"

The second ring was cut short when Nora picked up. "Hello?"

"Hi."

A few days ago, Nora wouldn't have imagined she could recognize a person's voice with definitive confidence given a single syllable. Very quietly, she shut the bedroom door and strode a few soft steps away from it. "I was hoping you'd call," she said. "Received my message, that is."

"I received it just fine," said Barbara. "I'm sorry for not getting back to you sooner. I was caught up in something work-related."

"Oh, no. I understand. I'm working on some things for my firm right now, actually."

"Did I call at a bad time?"

"No, no," Nora swiftly assured her. "Not at all. I was meaning to take a break, anyway."

"Well, all right then. So, Nora. Did you mean to hold me to my promise?"

"Promise?"  

"That I'd see you soon."

In her absence of mind, Nora started curling the phone cord around her finger. "You could say that," she replied. "I was wondering when you'd have some time off to meet and exchange those skirts."

"I'm fairly booked until Friday. When do you have time?"

She paused to recall her schedule. "Friday is good. We could do lunch."

"Or," said Barbara, "since it'll be a Friday, maybe we could do something a little more fun."

"Fun?" repeated Nora. "Like what?"

"I know some good places around the city. Want to see a show?"

"What kind of show?"

"You know, a sit-down in front of a stage. We'll watch some bands play, there'll be some singing numbers, and we'll have a few cocktails. I could swing by your office at five. That's about when you close up, right? We could have dinner first."

"That... That does sound like a lot of fun," Nora admitted. "It really does. I don't know, though. If I should." 

"Why not?"

"I don't know." Nora freed her reddened finger from the phone cord and watched the excess blood drain out of it. "I guess I'm hesitant to leave Nate by himself all night," she fibbed. "We only have a few weeks left before he leaves."

"Do you want to invite Nate along?"

"I, uh... I don't think Nate enjoys that sort of thing. I think he'd be bored." Nora didn't want to share Barbara with anyone, not even Nate, but there was no way she could tell her that. She reached out to the floor lamp and switched it off, letting darkness envelop her. Her mind was so busy its restlessness had spread to her hands, driving them to nonsense.

Barbara was quiet, and Nora feared she had said something wrong. That fear was magnified when Barbara finally spoke up again to ask her, "Nora, can I be forthright with you?"

"Yeah." Her response sounded small and demure. Nora turned the lamp back on and looked away when the sudden contrast hurt her eyes.

"I'm being polite."

"What?"  

"I'm being polite by extending the offer to Nate. I didn't want you to think me eager to exclude him. I just know if it were the two of us, you'd enjoy yourself more."

Nora felt cold, from her throat to her feet, with a feeling akin to guilt. 

"And I only say that," Barbara continued, "because I think I understand why you're, well, why you're a little unhappy. There's nothing wrong with feeling that way. You're married, settling down in the suburbs. Putting down your roots. Maybe you've been talking about kids with your husband. You don't feel young and free anymore, and you miss it."

She remained nonplussed, but for an entirely new reason.  

"I mean, that feeling's more common among men, but that doesn't mean a woman can't feel a little suffocated too. Maybe all you need is to get out and have some fun from time to time, just to prove to yourself that you still can. But it's up to you, of course. Who am I to give you advice, really? I'm not even married. I'm not in your shoes."

"Barbara," Nora started, then stopped, then sighed. "No, um. You're right. I think you're right. I do."

Barbara was quiet again, although for less time than the previous lapse. "Are you sure?"

"I am. I think I haven't been very... attentive to what I want. For the last - I don't know - _three months_ all I've thought about is the house and Nate and my firm and I... I guess I forgot myself in the middle of it. I'm sure."

"You don't sound sure."

"Well, maybe I'm not." Nora brought the phone over to her side of the bed and retrieved her stash of Grey Tortoise from the bed frame. "But, you know, if I stay put and don't try anything new, nothing will change for certain." She fit a cigarette between her lips and flicked her lighter, once, twice, _thrice_ before giving up and returning the items to their hiding spot. Defeated, she reclined on the bed. 

"You're right on that account," said Barbara. "Guess it's worth a shot, then. You're good for it, right? Five o'clock, this Friday the, ah, _thirteenth?"_

Nora had to laugh. "No better day for it. We're looking for fun, aren't we? Every worthwhile story I've ever heard came from a turn of some misfortune."

Barbara laughed too and said, "If nothing else, at least I have one thing right about you."

"What's that?"

"You have a wild soul. You love adventure and nobody can tame you. I think that's why I liked you so early on."

Heat crept into Nora's cheeks. Barbara's voice was so warm she could wear it as a blanket. "How did you know that? Or even that it's true?"

"You told me yourself," said Barbara. "In Eileen's house, when we were having a drink. All I had to do was listen."

Nora shut her eyes and drew a silent breath as it occurred to her just how much she liked Barbara. She liked her so much she started to mentally line up all kinds of excuses to keep her on the phone longer. She lined up so many of them that in her greed, Nora neglected her window of opportunity long enough for it to expire. Barbara decided to let Nora go for the night. Before Nora could stall her they had issued their goodbyes and she found herself lying inert on her back, staring at the ceiling with her work documents cluttering the other half of the bedspread.

A muffled voice penetrated the closed door. It was Nate in the living room, saying, _"Come on."_

By the sound of it, his team wasn't doing so well. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Friday. September 13, 2075**

The girls were disappointed when Nora informed them of her unavailability for future Wednesday afternoons. Her work at the firm devoured her weekdays and it would be unfair to consider herself a part of their unofficial club without active participation. While saying this, Nora was highly embarrassed to have ruined her apology with a sputtering laugh - involuntary as a cough - because her solemnity had implied that Wednesdays were a noble institution and not a rumor-mongering indulgence. Still, Nora liked being indulgent when she could. Wednesdays would be dearly missed. Eileen assured Nora their doors would always remain open to her.

Back at the firm, Nora enjoyed a highly successful week. Their bookkeeping revealed an incentive to hire more paralegals to assist them in dealing with an uptick in business. Not only did that mean they were expanding; it also meant less busy work for Nora and her partners and more time devoted to higher callings such as lunches and soirées with clients. And court appearances, of course.

Friday morning brought the best news of all. Through the open door of her office, Nora spied Ben Howell arrive animated with victory. He lifted his fists and mouthed silent shouts until Gina shot him a lethal glare, bidding him to settle down. He then explained himself to her. By Gina’s reciprocation of barely-contained excitement, Nora could tell that whatever Ben had managed to do was significant.

He jogged over to Nora’s office and closed the door so he could tell her too. Apparently, Nora’s input on the case involving the lawsuit over a serious altercation at a country club had secured their client in Bermuda shorts such an appealing settlement that he had referred all his country club friends with disputes to Howell, Lambert, and Shaw. They already had two new cases lined up for review.

Nora rounded her desk to slap her hands into Ben’s and mutely yell with him, because they weren’t sitting at the kids’ table anymore. They were sitting with clients like Stefan Anders, whose platters were full of yachts and summer homes and businesses that spawned legal trouble as reliably as a seasonal crop. Wealthy Americans were a voraciously litigious stock and Howell, Lambert, and Shaw could not have been more patriotic in that moment.

Best of all, Nora now had a semi-verifiable excuse for going out with Barbara that evening. During her lunch break she called Nate and told him the news. Nate was happy for her and completely understanding when Nora said she and her partners planned to celebrate by going out for dinner and drinks. He only cautioned her to drive safely. He was so understanding that Nora’s mood capsized the moment she hung up. An old adage echoing throughout her life, from her father’s parenting to her firm partners’ analyses, had surfaced in her mind: people only felt the need to lie when they were guilty of something.

Gina only made her feel worse when she brought Nora an assault case involving eighteen-year-old Craig Ellison. Rowdy teenagers didn’t bother her one bit. It was remedial to her. The problem was Ellison was gang-affiliated, as informed by a bit of research Gina had conducted. Over the last six months Nora and her partners had been deliberating whether or not they wanted to represent defendants involved with organized crime, because once you took a side you angered somebody, somewhere. And they knew they had to be careful about it.

“He’s small time, Nora,” Gina told her. She pulled a chair to the front of Nora's desk while watching her flip through the document she handed her. “They’re just a bunch of punks who hang around the Corvega plant in Lexington, smoking and harassing people all night. They’re petty. And Ellison’s got a short rap sheet, so he’s defendable. It'll have to be pro bono, by the way.”

A crease of concern appeared in Nora’s brow as she gleaned the details. “Then why bother at all?”

Gina shrugged and replied in nonchalance, “To get our foot in the door.”

“To get our foot in _whose_ door?” The top page limply fell back over the stapled stack of papers. “Real gangs? White-collar launderers? Mobs? Are we done swimming with minnows and jumping right in with the sharks?” Nora dropped the file onto her desk with a light slap.

“Nora, calm down,” said Gina. “That’s not what I meant. What we mean to do here, with this case, is advertise ourselves. We haven’t made any commitments yet. We’re just showing that we’re ready to be dealt into the game. People are going to see that, and not just the people we’re worried about. We’re talking about legitimate enterprises wanting to make friends with us before the thorns in their sides do. I think we’re in a unique position for this. I think the timing is right.”

She drew a steady breath and exhaled. “Have you talked to Ben about this?”

“Yes. We’re waiting on your approval.”

“Well, what’s the end goal here? You want corporate interests to contact us? Fine. How do we get to them through organized crime?”

Gina smirked and slyly held out her hands. “Any more direct and we’d be walking through their front door.”

Nora rubbed her temples. She hated their non-smoking policy with a passion. It made her increasingly susceptible to pressure as the day went on, unlike Gina, who hardly smoked at all. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take the case. But just to see where this goes.”

“Of course. Your desk _will_ be a checkpoint for any resulting opportunities. I promise.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes before five o’clock, Nora stopped working early to sip a glass of water by her window. She peeked through the blinds at the buildings and traffic flowing below. A short segment of highway suspended over the city was visible through the range of towers. The setting sun touched it, making cars gleam like chrome bullets. She didn’t even have a chance to properly incubate her anxiety about her outing with Barbara. It was upon her so quickly it startled her, when Ben knocked on her door and let himself in to tell her with great intrigue, “Hey. There’s a real _dame_ out in front. Says she’s here to see you?”

Nora parted her lips but made no sound until she placed her glass on her desk and began hastily gathering her things. “Uh, yeah,” she said. “I’m going out with a friend tonight.”

Ben whistled low. “Can I come with?”

She rolled her eyes while checking if the drawers of her desk were locked. “You’re engaged, tiger. Remember?”

He grinned with charm and humor. The expression vanished altogether when he noticed someone behind him and stepped aside. There stood Barbara in a gray tweed jacket with a floral brooch fastened to its lapel, looking immensely pleased as she examined the name plate on Nora’s door. She then turned her gaze into the office itself, and finally to Nora, who was still scrambling.

“Hey.” Nora was a bit breathless. She slipped a folder into her bag and pulled her arm through its handles. “How are you?”

“Early, I’m afraid,” said Barbara. Her eyes wandered the furniture, fake plants, and the framed copy of Nora’s law degree on the wall. “Guess I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see your firm.”

For a few seconds, Nora dumbly watched Barbara investigate her surroundings until sense fell back into her. “Oh, Ben— this is Barbara Voss. She’s a production artist at Corvega. And Barbara, this is Ben Howell, one of my partners.”

They shook hands.

“A pleasure, Ben,” said Barbara.

Ben replied with a dashing smile, “The pleasure’s mine.”

Nora wanted to slug Ben again, for real this time, but she controlled herself. “So,” she said to Barbara, “you ready to go?”

On their way out, Nora shot Ben a discreet but threatening look while locking her door. He lifted his hands to mime surrender and Nora pressed her glass of water into one of them. They departed. Barbara strode beside her down the corridor between cubicles, where most of the employees were tidying up, covering their typewriters, and powering down terminals.

“So you run the show here?”

Nora saw Barbara’s red lips curled into a smile. “You could say that,” she answered, deciding not to remind her of the power distribution amongst her partners leaving Nora with only a third of executive authority. “We’re still too small for it to mean much. A president of a company of ten is no more important than a supervisor of the same number.” She bid the secretary a good night when they passed the front desk.

“Depends on the business,” said Barbara. “Are you building a dining room table or the periodic table? Both are useful, but one is certainly more important.”

“The dining room table, right?”

Barbara laughed and said, “You’re a real smart ass at heart, aren’t you?”

Nora smiled and listened to the clicking of their heels echo through the vacant space between the offices and the elevator. The sound stirred her chest, excited her, made her almost dizzy. Despite leaving the building at the same time every day, it was only now that Nora noticed how exquisitely golden the sunlight made the metal doors of the elevator look. Perhaps the changing seasons were at fault, and such a phenomenon would only occur at this minute, on this day, and not again until the seasons shifted once more.

Once they were in the elevator, Nora leaned her shoulders back against the wall and asked, “Is that what you wore to work today? I didn’t think about it until it was too late, but I might’ve brought a change of clothes since we’re going out.”

“Business attire is always in fashion,” said Barbara. Her eyes flitted upward to peer at the warmly-hued ceiling light, then met Nora’s. “Wealth and power are beautiful, ageless things.”

“Is that what they teach you in advertising school?”

Barbara lifted her eyebrows and said, “That’s what they teach you in life.”

They visited Nora’s car in the parking structure first. Nora opened the trunk to deposit her work bag and retrieve Barbara’s skirt. It was clipped to a hanger and enveloped in a plastic cover.

“You had it cleaned for me?” Barbara was pleasantly surprised. She folded the skirt over an arm and flattened the material with her spare hand to find it perfectly stainless. A gentle breeze swept through the strata of concrete, catching her dark hair and nudging it back just far enough for Nora to glimpse her earrings. They matched her brooch.

Barbara's car was a red Corvega coupe. It was immaculate and wore expensive tires. It was loved and cared for. It was _cherished_. When Nora slid into the passenger’s seat she was careful not to let her fingernails anywhere near the upholstery. She could never risk vandalizing something so obviously close to Barbara’s heart, thinking she might hurt Barbara as well if she did. She couldn't fathom asking to smoke inside it either, lest she ruin the delicate scent of perfume lingering in the interior like an incense. The car could have been a cathedral.

“I want to return the favor,” said Barbara, pulling Nora from her thoughts. She started the car. “For the skirt. I’ll treat you to anywhere you like for dinner.”

Nora looked at her. “Really?”

“Mm-hmm. What do you feel like?”

* * *

In the end, Nora chose Italian, but Barbara provided the specific location when Nora remained indecisive.

When they were seated, Nora ordered a glass of white wine because she was in the mood for a seafood dish and wanted to demonstrate her sophistication. She wondered if Barbara would even notice. Maybe a woman like her spent so much time around elites that pretense was expected, and only deviations from it were worth noticing.

Recognition wasn’t vitally important. She liked the restaurant enough to focus on it instead. It was upscale, outfitted with white tablecloths, ornate wall art, and lights dimmed enough to establish mood but not so much as to deliberately conceal flaw or insecurity. In fact, Nora may not have needed to take any measures to impress Barbara. By her dining selection, it might have been Barbara trying to impress _her_.  Nora liked that idea and hoped it was the case.

After ordering, they sipped wine and lit cigarettes. Barbara handed her one and held out her lighter, covering the feeble flame with her hand as Nora leaned into it. When she retreated, Nora found Barbara still watching her, with either a ghost of intention reflected in her eyes or the flickering candles and lamps from nearby tables. The world felt like a basking dream around her. Nora couldn’t understand it, how Barbara's presence seemed to bend light and time.

“Where’s your family from, Nora?”

“Here,” she answered. “Well, not _here,_ strictly speaking. I grew up in west Massachusetts. We were out of the way of everything. There could be up to a mile of space between two properties. It was nice having so many acres all to yourself, but I never really had anyone to enjoy it with. I’m an only child.”

“Your parents plan it that way?”

Nora lifted her glass of wine for a small sip. When she lowered it, she swiveled its base on the tablecloth. “No. When my mother had me, there were some complications. She had to have surgery, and after that she couldn’t have any more kids. So it could get lonely, but it wasn’t all bad. The area was beautiful in the fall, and things were always pretty peaceful. Plus, I have _a lot_ of cousins, who I saw during the holidays. And I went to school and made friends there.”

“So how’d you come out here? Tell me your story.” Barbara had a drag from her cigarette and smiled at her.

A matching smile formed on Nora’s lips of its own volition. “It’s fairly straightforward,” she said. “As soon as I graduated high school I moved out to start college. My grades were good, so I had some grants and scholarships to get me through it. Then I started law school, met Nate toward the end of it, and here I am. Like I said, pretty straightforward.”

“Of course it’s straightforward,” said Barbara. “You left out all the interesting things that happened along the way.”

Nora shook her head. “Oh, no. Not this again. Which reminds me - don’t you _owe_ me? Here I am telling you everything about myself, yet I still don’t know a damn thing about you. Tell me _your_ story.”

“Fine,” Barbara serenely complied. “You’re right. I’ll talk.” She rested an elbow on the table and leaned forward a tad, letting smoke wind off the end of her cigarette as she pondered where to begin. By the length of her withdrawal, Nora inferred there was a lot to be said.

She supplied a possible starting point. “Do you have family in Boston?”

“No,” answered Barbara. “They’re all up north, in Maine. I’m the only one around. Well, besides an aunt, up until two years ago. She had liver problems, and died of them. I lived with her for about eight years, from when I was sixteen to twenty-four.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Nora.

“It’s all right. I knew she was fading for a while. Sometimes you get to a point where you start feeling guilty because you’re actively waiting for a person to die. Just to get it over with so you don’t have to anticipate it anymore.”

Nora lowered her cigarette from her lips and mulled over the grim sentiment. “How’d you come to live with her?”

Barbara flashed a smile, but it was a rueful expression. “My father… is a funny man. His name’s Joseph Voss. He and my older sister, Ruth, are still up in Bar Harbor running a business. They rent out boats and sell bait and tackle. I used to like it. I used to keep an impressive collection of lures in a tackle box. I don’t know why, but I was drawn to lures as much as the fish they’re meant for. I think I always had an affinity for design.”

Their food arrived. They softly thanked the waiter and had a first taste before Barbara continued.

“My father is old-fashioned,” she said. “Always thinking of the past. He considers himself a traditional Zionist.”

Nora nodded several times. “Anyone tell him about Tel Aviv yet?” She twisted some pasta around her fork and impaled a shrimp on its prongs. The bite was delivered to her mouth to stop herself from saying anything else. Her glass of wine had relaxed her nerves, but it had also unfortunately relaxed her tongue. 

“To this day I don’t know if he’s genuine," said Barbara. "I think he just wishes he had his mother’s name, Epstein, and not his father’s. He despised his father.” Barbara returned to her plate and sighed. "It’s been over twenty years since Tel Aviv, hasn’t it?"

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Nora remembered Tel Aviv. She was just a kid when it happened. She remembered seeing it on television and feeling a wave of cold, visceral fear wash over her. For a few hours, everyone thought that was it. The end of the world. And for a lot of people - too many people - it was.

“I constantly fought with my father,” said Barbara. “He didn’t like who I was mingling with. Dating goys was one thing." She rolled her eyes at the word. “But my habits were a little _too_ unconventional for his tastes.”

Nora met her gaze and held it. She had questions, a _lot_ of questions, but didn’t feel right asking any of them. Barbara sensed a prominent one.

She tapped her cigarette over the table’s ashtray and said, “It’s got nothing to do with religion. He just likes controlling people. He has an idea in his head about what everything and everyone should be. He romanticizes. And when you’re not doing what he wants you to, suddenly he thinks you’re intentionally working against him.”

“So that’s why you left?”

“That’s why I left. My mother wasn't an option because _she_ left when I was too young to even miss her.” When Barbara paused, her features suddenly went lax with contrition. She closed her eyes, smiled, and looked up again. “See, Nora, this is why I get dodgy when you ask me to talk about myself. I don’t like depressing people. It’s unbecoming.”

“No,” said Nora. “I mean, I like it. It’s honest and real. It doesn’t have to be pretty." Her eyes dropped back to her plate when she retrieved her fork. "I just think it's easy talking to you and I hope you feel the same.”

Barbara kept smiling at her, but the spirit of the expression had morphed from regret to gratitude.

As Nora learned the messy politics of Barbara's family and upbringing, she didn't find her any less stunning than she had at their first meeting. Back then, Barbara could've been anything, anyone. A wide open field for Nora's conscience to run wild in and populate with her fantasies, good or bad. On the complete contrary, Nora liked her even more now. Barbara only became more tangible, more reachable, with every disclosure. She didn't feel so displaced anymore. Nora felt like both of them were in the same place - the right place - at the same time.

She told Nora more. When Barbara was sixteen, she enrolled in the same high school as Eileen and the two became friends. After earning a college degree in fine arts, she started painting and selling landscapes. Some were commissioned and some were sold off at fairs and local galleries. But Barbara wasn’t all that great at landscapes, and her pocketbook showed it.

Cars started appearing among her landscapes. Cars, bicycles, boats, planes. Urban scenes and interiors. At first, they were side projects or minute details, peeking out of the background or placed on a distant road. Then they expanded and inched closer to the foreground, until her splendid vehicles and visions of man-made society became primary subjects while nature was relegated to periphery. People liked them, wanted them. Emboldened by the discovery of her niche, Barbara began applying at ad agencies and the equivalent departments of companies. She landed a few jobs and built her portfolio. Inevitably, Corvega noticed her and stole her from another employer.

It wasn't perfect. Chryslus didn't like hiring agencies despite the advantages, because they liked grooming in-house creative to think about cars, cars, and _only_ cars until they were they specialized and the best in the industry. As a result, work could get repetitive, marketing executives were overbearing, and few in the department were ever promoted out of temp or freelance contracts to permanent positions. If they did make it, the pay and benefits alone were worth undying loyalty to the brand.

“What’s it like, designing ads?” Nora asked her. They had finished their food and decided to sit a while, chatting aimlessly. It wasn’t even seven yet. They had plenty of time to spare. “The process?”

“I don’t want to bore you,” said Barbara.

She smiled and promised, “You won’t.”

“In that case… It’s a lot of sitting around, listening to the senior director blather on, and quickly sketching out whatever he envisions the campaign to look like. Eventually, something sticks. Then you flesh it out.” Barbara lifted her butter knife from the table, which she hadn’t used, and gazed at the polished surface. “I’ve learned a lot about good advertising. And bad advertising. One lesson is: beware the product who lambasts the competition. They’ll waste your time, every time, because the only way they can look like they’re standing up is if they’ve pushed someone else down.”

“I thought those campaigns worked anyway,” said Nora. “I still see them all the time.”

“They don’t work on me.”

“But it’s not about you. It’s about the consumer you’re trying to attract.”

Barbara smirked at the knife she held. “You’re right,” she said. “Guess that’s why I’m a production artist and why they’d never let me write copy. It’s a matter of principle for me. I love Corvega and I never want to see it stoop. Your product has got to have dignity. _We’ve_ got to have dignity.” She shook the knife at her before laying it back down.

Nora continued antagonizing her in good humor, “Will dignity line your pockets?”

That made Barbara quietly laugh. “God, Nora. You are an absolute monster.”  

“I’m a lawyer." She folded her hands neatly on the table. “I'm worse.”

Barbara kept her haunting amber brown eyes on Nora. They were incandescent with amusement. “Tell me something. Why do you think people malign advertisers and advocates?”

Nora reciprocated her stare while running her fingers along the edges of her cloth napkin. ”Well… advocates are the only thing standing between criminals and justice. People think our livelihoods are soaked in blood and we give no second thoughts about it. But I think people forget that without lawyers defending the accused, the whole justice system becomes a witch burning.” She stopped playing with her napkin and folded it onto the side of her plate. “A good attorney has never protected criminality. Never. They’ve only protected the innocence due their client.”

From the other side of the table, Barbara listened with unwavering attention.

“If I go into court defending a potential murderer,” said Nora, “I’m not protecting a murderer. I’m protecting the innocent man that alleged murderer might actually be. And if the court deems him a murderer, I'm there to make sure he's treated fairly. People don’t see it that way. People like clarity. They like good versus evil and easy solutions. As for advertising… I think people hate advertisers because they think you’re manipulating them. Making them want things all the time and taking their money away.”

“I think you’re exactly right about that.”

Nora slowly continued, “But people want to want.”

“It’s human nature to want,” Barbara concurred. She tucked a hand beneath her chin, propping herself up on her elbow. “They love to want. They couldn’t live if they didn’t. But what do people want? Love? Success?"

"In the end those are states of mind, I think. You can fake them. You can't fake a Corvega." 

"A dreary take on it," said Barbara. "But there's something to it."

“Maybe your job," Nora said at a volume so soft it was intimate, "is just showing them something worth wanting.”

They were quiet. Nora looked at her for longer than she meant to, but the mutual stare wasn't uncomfortable or obscene or presumptuous. It was natural, exploratory. There wasn't any denying it now. It had been disorienting at first, but Nora recognized this ilk of tenderness, this aching desire to be near, to selfishly keep. And she recognized what it meant for herself.

She brought her receding cigarette to her lips for a final drag, spending it, and wondered if Barbara felt anything similar. If she didn't, Nora feared she would never feel anything worthwhile again. Infatuation had held her heart up for vehement ransom.

* * *

The club of Barbara's choice, _Clever Carmine_ , was a hole in the wall with personality and charisma. There was a stage, as Barbara had promised, draped in red curtains. And before that stage was an arrangement of tables and seating, accessible from a series of steps leading down from the bar, around which many people congregated. It was fairly dark inside the club, something Nora might have deemed an annoyance had it not justified Barbara linking arms with her while searching for an open table. They found one and sat down twenty minutes before the show was due to start. Everyone else had started settling in, too. A server came by to ask them if they wanted to order anything.

Nora could barely read the menu in the dim light, even when she held it beside the small decorative lantern on the table. She was careful not to let Barbara know this and almost deferred the decision entirely to her. Barbara asked if she was in the mood for a few martinis, and Nora expressed agreement. But at the last opportunity, Nora amended her order to a Manhattan, and Barbara followed her example.

"Two Manhattans," the server confirmed with them and was on his way.

While sitting, they lit more cigarettes. A thought crossed Nora's mind. She wondered if she smoked too much. If she were acting as her own judge, she wouldn't have said so. She could go six hours straight without one, and was regularly forced to by her office. She bet she could quit at any time. She didn't want to of course, and wouldn't, but she _could._  

"A Manhattan, huh?"

Nora looked over at Barbara to answer her curiosity. "I just thought it was funny, with your work trips and all. What, did you want a martini?"

"I want whatever you want."

Subtle warmth spread through her face. Nora was glad again that it was dark. 

Their drinks arrived within a few minutes. Nora didn't particularly like maraschino cherries and asked Barbara if she wanted hers. She said yes, retrieved them on a toothpick, and ate them right out of the liquor. When she noticed Nora watching her, Barbara paused to say, "What?" with a smile and Nora had no reply other than an evasive, "Nothing."

The stage curtains peeled back to admit the night's emcee, a winsome, energetic young man with shiny red hair and a white suit. He stepped up to the microphone and greeted the patrons in seats and along the walls. His name was Jack Ritter. He was twenty-three and assuredly above the drinking age; a comment that garnered some scattered laughs from his audience. Jack amused them for a few minutes before he introduced the acts. A spotlight was turned onto the crowd, singling out two men standing near the stairs in brown suits and horn-rimmed glasses.

"Look who we've got here tonight," said Jack. "I know an ArcJet man when I see one. They always look like a million bucks. They probably make that much, too."

Someone whistled at the two men in the spotlight. Through the fine haze of cigarette smoke, Nora saw one of them raise his cocktail to toast the attention. 

"The only thing sharper than their outfits are those big brains, sending us to the moon and Mars. Maybe one day I'll get a gig out there and be done with you people."

People laughed, booed, and clapped before the spotlight found an older couple sitting close to the stage. Jack was sweet to them, saying he hoped he and his steady girlfriend would be as precious as them some day. 

"And get a load of these two stunning gals." 

Nora winced when blinding light fell upon her and countless eyes turned their way. There was another whistle, followed by two more in close succession.

"Out painting the town," said the emcee. "I might be the luckiest guy in the world, getting to see them every time I look out there tonight. They haven't done a thing and I already think their show is better than mine. I should've been the one paying _them_ to get in here tonight."

While Barbara handled the attention with grace and humor, Nora struggled to resist covering her eyes with a hand. It was over soon. Jack briskly moved along to plague someone else, and after a while he was done plaguing altogether and introduced the first act: a local jazz ensemble with a gorgeous singer. Pearls were strung about her neck like opalescent moons against her dark complexion and her voice was divine. Nora was enchanted. During their first song she forgot about her drink and only went back to nursing it when the ensemble began their next. 

Minutes in, Nora felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and saw that Barbara had risen from her seat. She whispered to Nora, saying she'd be right back, and Nora felt the hand squeeze her before lifting away. The gesture left her head and heart swimming. It took her several seconds to even comprehend what she'd been told.  

Nora enjoyed the show by her lonesome for a few minutes before Barbara's chair was occupied again. Except, she was perplexed to see it wasn't Barbara who had occupied it. It was a man. He was well-dressed and handsome, without a single wheat-blonde hair out of place. 

She smiled for politeness' sake and inquired through the guise of greeting, "Hello."

He smiled back. "I've been looking for an open seat," he said. "I think I just found the best one in the house."

Nora sighed a wry laugh. "I appreciate the compliment, but I don't want to waste your time." She gripped the stem of her glass and lifted it from the red tablecloth. "I'm sure there are plenty of girls here tonight who'd be happy to have you along." A small sip punctuated her advice with finality.

"But not you?"

After setting down her drink, Nora nodded. "Not me. Sorry." 

"That's too bad," said the blonde man. The light from the stage edged the strong contours of his cheekbone and jaw. "Is it my hair? I could find a new barber."

"You hair is fine," she told him. He didn't seem too bad and she didn't feel like being rude. At least, not yet. 

"Then what's the problem? Maybe I can fix it."

She unveiled her best weapon. By raising her left hand, Nora showed him the weak gleam of her wedding ring and said, "I'm married." As soon as she did, Nora was almost startled when a familiar hand returned to her shoulder, gripping her with calm assurance. Barbara had returned. 

"It's true," she said. Barbara drew closer from behind - so close that Nora's pulse raced wildly in response - and kissed her cheek with soft, reverent affection. When Barbara retreated, she slid her arms around Nora's shoulders and leaned her head against hers. "She's very much married."

His smile grew crooked with surprise. "Okay. I get it." He fixed his tie and stood. "No way I could compete with that, not in a million years. You ladies have a good night."

Barbara reclaimed her seat as soon as the man left. She looked at Nora, wincing as she smiled with a hint of guilt, and asked her, "Too much?"

She had momentarily forgotten how to speak and fumbled with her words. "Well, um, it worked." 

"He was a bit pushy, wasn't he?" 

Nora didn't reply. Instead, she replayed Barbara's words over and over in her head. The controlled disdain of her complaint, the possession of it. She liked to believe that special offense had been taken at even the mildest of competition. She extrapolated until the words were wrung dry and wraithlike in her memory, stripped of linguistic meaning.

They watched the remaining acts in contentment, enjoying them, the ambience, and the company. Every so often, Nora stole glimpses of Barbara. She was painfully fond of the small, satisfied smile she carried on her lips. It was like she deeply involved herself in everything she witnessed. Like she was always having a dialogue with it, learning from it. Nora was not subtle, however, and Barbara caught her staring.

But neither looked away. Through the darkness and the screen of amorphous smoke, they watched each other as they had in the restaurant, knowing something was there, but not daring to put a name to it. Naming it would determinate it, give it power over their lives. Enough power, maybe, to be fearful of.

* * *

Nora couldn't stop laughing. The final act of the variety was a riot of a comedian and everyone in the house had adored him. While she and Barbara strode across the dark parking lot, arm in arm, her laughter kept bubbling up whenever she gave her recollection any agency. Barbara thought it was funny too, but something had resonated with Nora's sense of humor in a rather intense, esoteric way. It was impossible to keep a straight face for more than a few minutes at a time. Breathless, she tried explaining herself to Barbara, who shook her head at the ridiculous behavior. 

"Are you drunk, Nora? You better not be." Barbara reprimanded her, but couldn't help but laugh as well once she found it contagious. "You're going to be driving soon."

They split up when they reached her car. Nora went around to the other side. 

"I'm not! I'm just—" She opened the passenger side door and got in after Barbara unlocked the car. "I'm just... _really_ happy."

Upon settling in and shutting the doors, Barbara turned to her and said, "Well look at you. You really are." Both started giggling again.

Nora's grin receded to a smile of subdued joy. She never stopped looking at Barbara, even while silence spanned between them. Only Barbara was bold enough to break it. She spoke gently, so gently her words might have shattered had they been delivered any louder, "I'm glad I got to see you like this. You look radiant."

There was another moment of fragile uncertainty. It expired when Nora decided to follow her instincts. Initially, she thought it innocent of herself when she leaned over the space between their seats to press her lips against Barbara's cheek. It was her response to the constricting tension inside her chest. A way to soothe it, appease it. But she liked it too much for innocence, and she stayed too long for innocence. 

When Nora finally withdrew, she froze in place as Barbara lifted a hand to comb her fingers into her hair. She tucked it behind her head, exposing her neck to a kiss applied just behind the corner of her jaw. Nora could scarcely breathe. The caress was delicate enough to kill her. She thought she'd truly die at the peak of her overwrought emotions, thinking the kiss as goring and exposing as a knife. Even so, she didn't mind. If it really killed her, so be it. There could not be a superior way to die.

It was with this fantastic acceptance of demise that Nora sought Barbara again as soon as she drew away from her. She caught her lips with her own before she went too far, and kept still to request that she stay. And Barbara did stay, for a short while. She held Nora's bottom lip between hers and kissed it with profound care and attention, as if in pursuit of perfect sentiment. 

Abruptly, they parted. They parted and stared, mirroring each other's fear and surprise.

Nora barely managed a whisper. "I'm sorry."

"No," said Barbara. Slowly, she sank back into her own seat and gazed through the windshield. " _I'm_ sorry. I... I know better. I shouldn't have done that. I should not have done that." Tremors ran through her hand as she fit a key into the ignition. "I'll take you back to your car."

They drove in silence. Not a single word was traded and Nora felt wretched. She tried emptying her mind by staring out the window, but the city was unwelcoming. It was gray and monochromatic. Nora had heard that was supposed to happen. At night, you were supposed to lose most of your ability to distinguish color because there wasn't enough light for the cones in your eyes to work with. It was supposed to be normal. But this was different. This must have been the darkest night in history.

She hadn't thought about Nate. She had only spared him, at best, maybe a few seconds of consideration over the last few hours. Her mind had been too busy elsewhere, chasing a feeling, a fascination. It had been like sailing toward a lighthouse through dense fog, where all she could see was a distant glow, and none of the rocks protruding from the bay. Perhaps it would've been wiser to wander in the fog forever. Perhaps Barbara was right. Maybe she really was a monster.

When they reached the near-deserted parking structure beside the office tower, Barbara pulled into a space next to Nora's car and kept the engine running. She opened the trunk without having to be asked, so Nora could retrieve her skirt and be on her way. Nora looked over at her before she exited the car, imploring her for the briefest glance of acknowledgement. But Barbara had rigidly fixed her gaze on a concrete pillar in the headlights.

With her skirt in hand, Nora lifted an arm to close the trunk, but stopped. She left it open so Barbara couldn't leave just yet, and stepped over to the driver's window. A rap of her knuckles against the glass caught Barbara's attention. Reluctantly, she rolled down the window. 

Before Nora could even say anything, Barbara beat her to it. "We... we can't do this. I'm sorry."

"I don't want to be sorry," said Nora. If there had been a physical rock lodged in her throat, she wouldn't have known the difference.

Barbara tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. She looked immensely unhappy, but not angry. Only sad.

"I've been around the block, okay?" Nora continued. "I know what happens next. In a day or two I'll try to call you, but you won't answer. We won't go out again. Then at next year's barbecue you might come around, but by then we'll be pretending like nothing happened. Like crazy people. But we still won't go out again."

"You're _married_ ," Barbara said, more assertively now. "Remember?"

"I never forgot."

"Then why would we do this?"

Nora swallowed stiffly. "I don't even know what I'm doing."

A weary sigh left Barbara. "Nora, listen. I like you. I really, really like you. You are... like the tart cherry on a sundae. I'd take you home with me in a heartbeat." She stopped herself by facing away again. "But I've been around the block too, you know. I've made messes of people's situations before, and I didn't even give a damn. Well, I'm giving a damn _now_. I don't want to ruin your life."

"Well who says it's gotta be that? So yeah, maybe I fucked up. But who says we can't put it behind us? I don't want to lose a friend over something stupid, something we can fix."

"Do you honestly believe we can do that?"

"I want to try," Nora said.

Barbara thought about it for a long time. She thought about it for so long that she powered down her car. A chill had started to tighten around Nora the longer she stood at the window. The seasons were in a fickle, transitory stage, and they hadn't brought coats along. But Nora wasn't even sure if the weather was making her cold. It could have just as easily been dread.

At length, Barbara said, "Go home to your husband, Nora."

She started shaking her head. "Barbara—"

"Hold on," she stopped her. "Just hold on. I'll... I'll call you. In a few days, to let things cool off first. All right?"

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Nora nodded. She almost wanted to weep. "All right."

"I _will_ call you, okay?" Barbara started her car again.

"Okay."

After Nora closed the trunk of her car, Barbara rolled up her window and pulled out of the parking structure.

Nora's drive home was long and lonely. She didn't turn on the radio. She didn't roll down her windows. Her car was a capsule of misery. 

Two miles from her neighborhood, Nora pulled off to the side of the road, turned off the headlights, and sat down on the hood. Crickets chirped and cars rushed by like pale phantoms in the night. She chained smoked until her throat was sore.

* * *

At home, she found Nate on the living room sofa with the television as the room's sole light source, suspended in that purgatorial state between sleep and consciousness, where reality slurred. She roused him by sitting beside him. He asked what time it was.

"It's going to be eleven," she said. "Sorry. I should've called."

Nate groggily replied, "That would've been nice. But I guess eleven's not too bad." He sat up and draped an arm around her shoulders. "How'd everything go?"

"It was fun," said Nora. She proceeded to lie so effortlessly it scared herself. "We had steaks and went out for drinks. Ben kept them coming so we stayed out a little later than originally planned. Had to sober up before heading out. I'm pretty tired."

"You look tired," Nate remarked. He narrowly dodged her elbow. Then, he noticed something. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

He reached out to lightly touch her cheek with a thumb. "Is that lipstick?"

Nora's heart skipped a beat. "Oh, Gina," she said. "She gets awfully affectionate when she's had too much."

"In that case, I'd like to party with her sometime," he said.

She harmlessly shoved him while rising from the sofa. After heading down the hallway, Nora entered the bathroom and locked the door. She held a washcloth under a stream of warm water, applied it to her cheek, and began to rub her face clean of evidence.

In the mirror, her reflection stared morosely back at her. She looked as tired as she felt. Once the lipstick was gone, she washed the rest of her face and pushed her hair to one side to lay the soothingly warm cloth on the back of her neck. But then she saw it: a red smudge tucked just beneath her jawline, in a place of such tender intimacy that there could be no denying the circumstances had Nate seen it. 

Nora felt distinctly ill. She rubbed at the spot until her skin was red. Not as red as Barbara's lipstick, but as red as guilt could read. Following its removal, Nora leaned over the sink with a hand clasped over her eyes and the lower half of her forehead. Water steadily dripped from the faucet. She had failed to shut it off all the way.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sunday. September 15, 2075**

Saturday was a blur. A languid haze of an indeterminate emotion - something like regret, or guilt, or self-pity. Maybe a poisonous cocktail of all three. Nora faked a hangover to get through it.

If she wasn’t already miserable enough, Nate brought in a notice with the mail. It was from the United States Government. They were mandating more stringent war rationing, effective September thirtieth. As Nora understood it, ration books would be distributed through public schools. One line was penned in, indicating the nearby elementary school Nate and Nora would have to visit by the end of the month.

Meat, dairy, sugar, preserved and canned goods of many kinds. They were all being closely regulated now. Nora thanked God that alcohol and tobacco hadn’t made the list. When Eileen called her about it, Nora rolled out of bed to listen to her grief. She said the rationing was poised to ruin Thanksgiving, Christmas, and even next year’s annual barbecue, if the war climate didn’t improve by then.

Sunday was a little better. Come Sunday morning, Nora didn’t feel a thing. It was as if she’d extracted all emotion from her body through phlebotomy and went about her day with the unaffected demeanor of an automaton. It didn’t feel good. But at least it didn’t feel bad.

Nate took the car around noon. He was going to spend most of the day with several friends from his regiment. Pretty much all of them were due to ship out in October along with Nate, so they wanted to make some merry before returning to the government-sanctioned, righteous slaughter of communism. They were going bowling.

As soon as Nate was gone, Nora went into the kitchen to fix herself a screwdriver. Only after pouring the vodka into a glass of orange juice and ice did she remember Barbara advising her not to drink when she was sad. But she couldn’t have been sad, not when she had elected to feel nothing. Besides, Nora had already finished preparing the drink and it would’ve killed her to waste it.

She brought her drink into the bedroom where she sat in a chair at the junction of the windows. Nora opened one of them after tugging the curtains aside. Warm sunlight bathed her face and chest and made her orange juice glow as bright as mango flesh. It was a pleasant day for pleasant people, but she didn’t feel like one of them. Rain, sunshine. It made no difference to her. It was all a homogenized slurry. 

A car pulled into the driveway next door. Nora saw Rachel and Prisha heading to their porch, smiling, and heard their voices but couldn’t make out any words. She wondered where they’d been. Maybe they’d gone out to breakfast, or church, or window shopping. Nora didn’t know the first thing about their personal lives. Just that they were women, married and in love, living in the suburbs together.

Nora sipped her drink and continued to sulk once the couple disappeared from sight. She felt like a gargoyle, leering balefully after them while confined to immobility.

Now that she seriously contemplated it, Nora realized there had been signs scattered throughout her life. High school brought about a girl on the basketball team, Irene, whose friendship Nora had desperately pursued. Irene was smart, attractive, and kind. Nora admired her and would go out of her way just to be around her. Once the obsession cooled, she started telling herself it was a burning case of aspiration, or envy. But now it seemed like less of wanting to _be_ Irene, and more of wanting to be _with_ her.

Then in college, Nora had a classmate. Evelyn, from algebra. They would study together at lunch and sometimes in Nora’s dorm room on nights before exams. Images of Evelyn survived in her photo album, but not the ones from an end-of-term house party. Those were the photos she had removed before moving in with Nate. In retrospect, Nora might’ve been under the impression that removing them would remove that part of her, too.

She remembered drinking a lot and finding Evelyn near the coat closet, equally as intoxicated. They joked, laughed, and kissed until people noticed them and made a scene of it. At the time, Nora didn’t care. Her heart rose buoyant and giddy through the night's thick jelly of drunkenness, only for her to learn the next morning that Evelyn had gone home with some handsome boy she barely knew. Nora seethed with humiliation for days. She wanted to rip up the photos her friend Harper gave her, but couldn’t. Not for many years. They were all she had left of Evelyn, because they didn’t have any classes together during the next term and never talked again.

In the past, Nora didn’t find it admissible evidence for homosexual proclivities or variants thereof because she’d been drinking. People did all sorts of outrageous things while drinking. What she failed to consider, however, was how she handled the aftermath. If Nora hadn’t been personally invested, she wouldn’t have been so hurt.

She thought herself stupid for taking over a decade to realize it.

Now being with a woman was all she could think about. Being with _Barbara_ , specifically, but Nora had been subconsciously fixating on the idea even before meeting her at the barbecue. She just hadn’t named it yet. Hell, she still hadn’t named it. Lesbian? Only curious? College had exposed to her to myriad labels. Too many, evidently, since she could barely recall any with confidence, let alone know which suited herself.

Worst of all was the question of where Nate fit into this. She loved Nate. He was a good husband and an even better friend. He was thoughtful, dependable, and level-headed. Nora didn’t want to hurt him. It made her sick, imagining how Nate might react to his own wife pining after other women. Would he feel lied to? Would he feel inadequate? There was no way she could ever tell him.

When Nora finished her drink, she reached over her dresser to set down her glass, but the curved bottom caught its weight and sent it rolling off to the floor.

“Shit,” she hissed, chasing a hand after it. The last few droplets flecked the carpet.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang. Expecting Gina Shaw calling to harass her again about the Craig Ellison case, Nora spitefully counted the rings. She picked up right before it would have gone to a recording.

“Hey.” Her voice was barren of enthusiasm.

“…You okay?”

Nora fixed her posture when she recognized Barbara’s voice. “I didn’t expect to hear from you," she said in surprise. 

“Well, I promised. A person’s only as good as their word. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” Nora answered. She nodded to affirm it to herself. “Yeah, I’m all right. What about you?”

She heard Barbara take a breath. “Fine.” There was a pause. “Look, I’m sorry. You were right, when you predicted what would’ve happened between us. Not talking, pretending nothing happened. I think that’s exactly what would’ve happened if you didn’t say something.”

“I couldn’t stand the idea of it,” said Nora. “People do it all the time when things get bad or weird and I… I didn’t want us to be that.”

“When you don’t think about something for long enough, it really feels like it goes away, right? But even when it’s gone, what it did to you is still there. Unresolved.”

Nora lifted a hand to grasp the rim of her empty glass and idly rotate it on the dresser, thinking. Sunlight refracted and shone through it brilliantly enough to hurt her eyes. “Maybe if everyone was less scared to talk to each other, life would be easier. If everyone was honest.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Honesty gets you into plenty of trouble, too.”

For the first time in two days, Nora smiled. Faintly, but genuinely.

“But being honest with yourself," said Barbara, "is different. It's the only thing you have when you have nothing else. Do you know what I mean?”

She did. Nora stopped playing with her glass and left it alone.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

A sigh left Nora as she shut her eyes. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. I can barely think straight.”

“There’s a pun in there somewhere, but I’ll leave it be.”

“Really?” Nora tried not to laugh, since she had decided to be unfeeling today.

Barbara feigned innocence. “Just start talking,” she said. “It’ll come to you.”

Nora reclined in her chair and pondered. Half a minute in, Barbara asked if she was still there, and Nora said she was. She didn't ask again. The silence Barbara afforded her was calming, patient, and warm. It gave her confidence room enough to grow, so she could declare openly, “I want to be with a woman," and let her head rest back against the window, pinning the curtains between it and herself. Relief and wistfulness entwined made her head buzz. "But I’ve never been before, not really. I think moving here did something to me. Made me realize this is it, you know? My life’s all laid out for me. This is all I’m ever going to be.”

“You think you panicked?”

“Maybe,” said Nora. “But I think it’s been there a while, at the back of my mind. I’ve just been avoiding it for years and now it’s caught up to me.”

“For what it's worth, I think you deserve a chance to explore who you are. How you decide to go about that, of course, should probably be discussed with your husband...”

That train wreck of a discussion was certainly _not_ going to happen, but it was nice to fantasize about it being a viable course of action. After a moment, she asked Barbara, “When did you know? About yourself?”

Barbara hesitated. “I hardly remember. It’s been too long. Maybe I always knew. At least, I knew for _sure_ by the end of high school. I brought a great boy to senior prom but ended up leaving with a girl. We disappeared all night, in our dresses, without a care in the world. Had some scrambled eggs at a roadside diner at eleven o'clock then drove out to the park. In the morning we found ourselves in a lot of trouble.”

This time, Nora did laugh, quietly. She couldn't help herself. “Does Eileen know?”

“She knows.”

They were silent, almost uncomfortably so, until Barbara spoke again.

“Don’t worry, it’s never been like that. She’s not my type, anyway.”

“Bossy?” Nora teased.

“Oh, I can appreciate a little bossiness from time to time. I just don’t like to see it coming. You can spot Eileen’s act a mile away, and she never lets up.”

Another grin tugged at Nora’s lips. “That’s true.” Her cheer faded as her thoughts turned solemn. She moved her head away from the window while sitting upright. Quietly, Nora confessed, “I want to see you again. Maybe I shouldn’t, but that’s the truth. That’s how I feel.”

Speaking her mind made Nora feel what a flower must have when opening to new daylight: excruciatingly vulnerable. A few harmful words could induce wilting as surely as a drought.

“I want to see you too,” said Barbara. “That’s the truth. But not in a way that causes problems.”

“Then… we’ll just have do it right,” Nora resolved. “We’ll set our boundaries and respect them.”

“I understand. That’s completely reasonable.”

For all they spoke about honesty and being candid, Nora found it hilariously ironic to conclude their conversation with a blatant lie. Boundaries, reasonability. It was all lies. Fabricated realities in which a verbal agreement could alter core nature. It was like trusting a butterfly bandage to mend a broken bone.

* * *

**Tuesday. October 1, 2075**

September faded along with the summer. Weighty heat still bore down on middays and afternoons, but the nights were turning cold and sodden. Leaves paled to sickly green on the way to yellow, and to eventual orange by the end of the month, when they'd pool like fire in the gutters. 

Nora successfully defended Craig Ellison against his assault charges. The court had ruled the altercation as self-defense within a week, and that was that. Or so she thought, until Dale Hawthorne knocked on her door one Saturday morning, bearing gifts: a package of chocolate chip cookies and a bottle of cheap vodka. When questioned, Dale said it was his thanks for keeping “Ellie” out of trouble. Nora was somewhat concerned about where a teenager would acquire liquor, but it made sense considering Dale’s apparent relations. She shrugged and accepted it. Dale was pleased.

In other news, Arnold Russell heard back from the police. They had found a significant amount of ammonia and sulfur compounds in his dog’s stomach, along with bits of broken glass. All signs of a prank gone terribly wrong. There wasn’t much to be done about it. Russell was devastated, left without proper closure and a body to bury.

On the twenty-sixth, Nora went out to lunch with Barbara. They met at a diner near the midpoint between their respective offices and split a club sandwich. Nora was elated to see her again, but not _too_ elated, solely by force. She thought herself lucky for a chance to heal their friendship at all and refused to fumble it.

Just as Nora had done for her at Eileen’s barbecue, Barbara agreed to share some fragmented anecdotes about her life. Barbara liked jazz and knew a lot about it; sub-genres, styles, names. She also knew how to jack cars, a skill she utilized once in a pinch and never since. When she was thirteen, her father took Barbara and her sister waterfowl hunting. Barbara shot a beautiful mallard on the water and cried all day. Her sister - sixteen at the time - shot three birds and loved it.

They had a pleasant lunch together and behaved themselves. For the most part. While reaching for their shared plate at the same time, Barbara’s hand collided with Nora’s and she withdrew it as though she’d been scalded. Both stiffly apologized and proceeded to ignore the tension.

It was October now. It arrived like a clean slate, a new era. Stores were filling up with Halloween candy, costumes, and decor, with displays preluding Thanksgiving found close behind. Nora bought a small hard squash on her grocery trip yesterday. It was green with white stripes and freckles. She liked displaying them in the kitchen to see how long they’d last before mold or signs of internal rot appeared on their waxy surface cuticles. One year, a squash she chose lasted until April. Nate, ever the cynic, owed her fifty bucks from betting poorly on its longevity. O ye of little faith, she had mused while counting her cash.

October also marked the end of civilian life for Nate. He was leaving on the seventh, giving Nora less than a week to say goodbye. They planned to go out for a nice dinner on Friday, then on Sunday, invite a few neighbors over for a modest send-off party. With the rationing in effect, they would have to buy hotdogs. Two packages containing ten apiece would place them at the limit, but it would suffice. Sides would have to make up for any deficits.

While arranging their plans early Tuesday morning, Nora was surprised to hear Nate bring up Barbara’s offer of a deal on a new car.

“We really should replace it soon,” he said. “This could be our last chance for a while. And who knows what trouble it could give you within the next few months?”

Nora was folding clean laundry into her drawer. The radio on top was tuned to a station playing classic jazz. “I don’t know, Nate. Even if we do get a good price, it’s still a lot of money.”

“It’s for quality of life,” said Nate. He bent down to pick up a sock Nora had dropped and handed it to her. _“Your_ life, more than mine right now. And I’m sure it won’t break the bank. We can probably get some decent money back from selling off the Highwayman, especially since it’s got a new engine. It’s worth more than you think.”

Her hesitation wasn’t exclusively money-based. As much as she believed in the authenticity of Barbara's offer, it was obvious that things hadn’t quite settled down between them. Limiting interaction seemed to be the best solution, as much as she hated it. Maybe in a month it’d be okay to get together again for another lunch.

Nate insisted, “Think about it. Yeah, the engine’s new, but a lot of it isn’t. It’s damn heavy and there’s hardly any aluminum on it. The body's a heat trap. I bet within a few years the money we’ll save on coolant will finance half a brand new car. There’s that, _and_ less maintenance costs.”

“I thought you didn’t like Barbara.” Nora wasn’t sure where the remark came from. Before she knew she had it in her, there it was, escaping.

“I never said that. I just think Barbara is what she is. An advertiser.”

Upon finishing her laundry, Nora shut her drawer and switched off the radio. "What’s wrong with advertisers?"

"All I’m saying is that admen are there to sell you something,” said Nate. “It's what they're trained to do. She gave you her card and told you about a new car. It was a sales pitch. A good one, obviously, since we’re interested, but it’s still a pitch. When she makes friends with you it’s probably going to be the same thing. Except now she’s the product.”

Nora looked out the window. She took offense, _acute_ offense, but had to smother it down. She couldn’t argue. She couldn't say that he was immensely wrong about Barbara, because if she did, Nate would ask when she found the time to learn such things. And then Nora would have to confess she’d been lying to him for weeks. Instead, she bit her tongue and said, “Well, I guess I’ll call her. See what kind of quotes her connections can come up with."

"That'd be great," he said. "Don't worry about it, honey. I think it'll turn out for the best."

She thought, in wry contempt, that he had no idea what he was saying or encouraging.

* * *

"I didn't call too early, did I?"

"It's ten," said Barbara. "Some of my colleagues are already drinking."

"What about you?"

There was a smile in Barbara's voice when she said, "I usually hold off until noon. What can I do for you?"

Nora tapped a pen against the unmarred top page of a notepad. "Nate and I were talking about getting a new car. I think we're serious about it. We were wondering if we could take you up on your offer, if it's still on the table." She leaned back in her office chair while turning herself away from her desk, opting to face the wall where her law degree hung. It needed to be dusted.

"At all times," Barbara confirmed. "I have a good friend at the dealership on the corner of Weatherby and Catalpa - only two blocks from my office. If you go, ask for Jim. I'll give him a call and leave your name with him. I know this sounds crazy, but you can trust him. He sold me my car and he sold the Nayars their car."

She clicked her pen and jotted down the information. "Trust a car salesman?" Nora joked. "That'll be a first."

"You trust an advertiser."

"Hm," Nora vocalized. "I guess I do."

"Do you want to go today?" asked Barbara. "I could come with to make sure Jim plays nice. I've been meaning to go soon anyway; it's common practice for us at the studio to use the showroom for photoshoots. Or just to grab some references."

"Today?" she echoed. Nora reached over her desk to flip open her calendar.

"We could go later in the week if you're busy."

"No, uh. One second." Her brow knit as she ran a finger down the columns, searching for a vacant slot. She switched the phone receiver to her other ear. "I'm totally booked. My partners are both in court all this week and they need someone to hold down the fort. I'm chained to my desk until Monday."

"You can't step out for a few hours today? Who's going to know?"

"Well, an important client, if I'm not back by two. Besides, leaving the paralegals in charge for any amount of time... unsettles me."

Barbara clicked her tongue. "It's not like they're going to burn the place down."

"With my luck, they will."

"Two hours, Nora. Two hours max, and we'll be back. Like you weren't even gone."

Nora started tapping her pen again. "You sure?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I mean... is it... _okay?_ Appropriate?" 

"Well if you don't trust us, go grab Nate." Barbara's mildness took a bitter turn. "Have him chaperone."

She sighed and squeezed the bridge of her nose. "No, it's fine. We're fine. Let's go. We'll lose half our time if I wait on Nate. I'll... I'll take a cab over there, okay? I can meet you at your office and we'll walk over."

After finalizing their plans, Nora locked up her office. On her way out she ran into one of the paralegals and said to him, "Galvan, I'm heading out but I'll be back by two. Until then, you're in charge. Anything goes wrong, I'm holding you accountable."

"Uh, okay. No problem. You're the boss." He slapped his hand against the folder he was carrying. 

She didn't like the look on his face. A reticent smile could have just as easily meant taking pride in responsibility as recognizing an opportunity for _irresponsibility_. 

* * * 

Corvega's Boston creative studio was smaller than Nora anticipated, but what it lacked in size, it made up for in style and modernity. Five floors of glass windows angled into the roof, whose red planar overhang was supported by silvery beams extending into decorative water pools bordering a slate walkway. The lobby embodied the Corvega aesthetic. Chrome, blithe reds and blues, upholstered seating, architectural angles swept long and clean by implied speed. Nora could've been walking onto the set of a commercial.

A protectron, dressed comically in a red suit, served as security and the elevator operator. It brought Nora to the third floor where she was greeted by a receptionist. Nora stated her business and the receptionist pressed a button on her desk's intercom to confirm with Barbara that she had been expecting someone. She would be out in a minute. Nora paced as she waited, eyeing a massive piece of abstract art hanging on the wall behind the receptionist's desk. Curiosity soon had her trying to peer into the offices.

"If you want to go in," the receptionist told her, "you'll need to sign for a visitor's pass and security will check your bag on the way out. Standard procedure."

"I understand," said Nora. "Gotta protect intellectual property, right?"

"...Right."

"I'm fine waiting here."

After another minute, Barbara emerged from the studio offices carrying a hard valise. She then collected Nora, who had been prodding the leaves of a potted plant at the corner of the wall and a window, where natural light was generous.

In the elevator, Nora asked what the valise contained. 

"Camera equipment," answered Barbara. With her free hand, she pulled her ID badge over her head, slipped it into her blazer's pocket, and stuffed the lanyard in after it. "We need a few specific angles on the latest models for our reference board. Our director's been us letting experiment lately and I'm not passing on a chance to show him and the higher-ups what they've been missing by staying conventional for so long. Tell me, when you think of a Corvega ad, what comes to mind?"

"I don't know," said Nora. "Nuclear families smiling on a road trip? A man and a woman - also smiling - outside a parked one, about to get in?"

"Exactly." Barbara wearily sighed. "What I've been saying for years, is that Corvega needs  _dynamism._ It needs sexiness."

The protectron bid them a clipped good day when the elevator doors opened. By then, Nora was starting to laugh, but not at the robot. "You want people to think Corvega's sexy?" They strode across the lobby's polished floors. "I mean, I guess you could do it. Nuka-Cola has that blonde model all over their marketing campaigns."

"I'm not talking about sprawling some hot girl over the car. I'm talking about the car itself."

Nora pushed open a tall glass door, holding it open for them and for an older woman in a suit, who happened to be arriving as they left. "Wait, you want the _car_ to be sexy?"

"Yes. Because I know it is." When they reached the sidewalk, Barbara glanced over at Nora to address her narrow-eyed skepticism. "Don't look at me like I'm some deviant. You ever watch the way an enthusiast stares at a sports car, or a restored classic? There's something there, something far more evocative than family wholesomeness. Something far more self-assured than an anatomical diagram. And I'm going to capture it."

"And you think it's sexiness? What would that look like?" 

They paused at a crosswalk in the company of other pedestrians, waiting for the light to change. Cars roared by the corner in a steady parade of bold colors.

Barbara smiled just from contemplating it. "You know what Corvega can afford to have in its advertising? Haughtiness. When you see a new model rising on the showroom platform, and the stage lights turn onto it, there's this... moment of absolute silence. Stockholders, executives, press. Everyone gets quiet, because the car's speaking for itself and they're all listening." She and Nora proceeded across the street after the walk signal flickered on. "A glossy new coat of paint. Protective strips freshly peeled off the fins. Headlights so clean they could be crystal." 

"Okay, I'm catching on," Nora said with a nod. "It's art. It's genuine art. You want Corvega to be as deeply desired as people do when they're in love."

"People want it all. I want people to believe Corvega has it all."

"Does it?" She turned to her.

Barbara smirked. "I don't know. I'm but a peddler of hope."

Nora met Jim at the dealership. He wore a tan suit, a bow tie, and parted his hair down the middle - all questionable choices in Nora's opinion, but he was happy to see Barbara and any new business brought his way. Jim asked what kind of car Nora was in the market for. She answered nothing too flashy, neither big nor small, with efficiency being a crucial asset. It was a little warm outside, so they decided to head into the showroom where Nora could browse their best specimens, and Barbara could photograph them at the same time. 

Their first stop was a green 2075 Atomic V-8. Barbara said the 2076 was due in November, but Nora shied away from the prospect of facing that price tag over an older model's. Besides, the 2075 was lovely enough to ogle. Barbara thought the same. She unlocked the hard valise, unlatched its clasps, and retrieved the camera cradled by a foam mold. Nora watched her fit a few bobby pins in her black hair to hold it back while she photographed the car. Over nearly ten minutes, Barbara mindfully sought out the right angles, whether it brought her kneeling before the grille or brushing her legs against the rear tires. From where Nora was standing, she didn't waste a single frame of film. 

She admired Barbara's passion for her job. It filled her with inspiration and longing. Inspiration to drive Nora forward in her own profession, and longing, perhaps, to see some of that passion directed toward herself. She had it before, briefly. For a few seconds, Nora had felt warm tides close overhead as she became everything and nothing in the world.

She would never have that again.

Jim tried showing her more cars, but she only paid partial attention. She couldn't help but notice how at ease Barbara was around her today. It meant their friendship was practically good as new, and that should have made Nora happy, but it only depressed her. If Barbara had moved on, that left Nora far behind and alone in the dust of her lovesickness.

After a while, Barbara suggested they climb into one of the new sedans. Nora assumed the driver's seat while Jim showed her all its features, mechanical and luxury-oriented, from the passenger's. Barbara sat right behind Jim and talked to him while Nora cruised a lap around the dealership lot. She understood maybe half of what they were talking about once they dove into technical jargon. Something she gleaned, with very rough understanding, was how the gear selector worked in tandem with coolant output to the fusion engine core. 

The best price Jim could offer her on the 2075 Atomic V-8 was one hundred and sixty grand. Barbara said it was a great price, and Nora believed her. She acted pleased and told Jim she'd probably come by again soon with her husband, but the instant they left the dealership, Nora clasped a hand over her forehead and said, "There's no way we can shell out that much."

"Really?" said Barbara. "I mean, your wallet's none of my business but I know people who'd kill for a price like that."

"I can see why," she grieved. "God, it's _such_ a nice car. I loved that thing. Maybe you're really onto something, saying a Corvega can be sexy."

While crossing a street, Barbara said, "Well, maybe there's a bright side to this. If you hold off buying a car now and start saving your nickels, you'll have something _twice_ as sexy to look forward to in a few years."

Nora took the bait. "Like what?"

"I can't tell you." She smiled at her. 

"Oh, fuck off _._ You're really going to tease like that and not follow up?"

Barbara's smile remained intact. "It's a company secret. Confidential. I'd tell you, but how can I know you won't be a leak?"

Nora took a moment to light herself a cigarette. It was likely her last chance to have one before five o'clock. "Tell you what," she said. "If I leak anything, you have permission to write _Scoundrel_ on my gravestone when I die, in place of a middle name."

Through a laugh, Barbara extended a hand to commandeer the cigarette. "What's your real middle name?" She had a drag before returning it.

"I don't have one," answered Nora. "My parents didn't give me one."

"What are they like? Your parents?"

"They're very straightforward, practical people. A little stoic. Superficially Protestant. French-Canadian, if you go back a generation or two. I guess they didn't see the need to give me any more names than I required."

"Are you close to them?" 

"I'd say so." Nora raised the cigarette to her lips. She was almost disappointed to find that Barbara had been careful not to leave any lipstick behind. A block away, the Corvega studio glinted proudly in the sun. "I always visit them during the holidays, on their birthdays, sometimes with no reason. With or without Nate."

Barbara hummed in thought. "When does Nate leave?"

"Monday."

"I didn't realize it was so soon. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. He's proud of it. I'm proud of him too."

When they reached the front door of the Corvega building Nora prepared to take her leave, but Barbara invited her inside. She had decided to show her the secretive Chryslus project she mentioned earlier, and Nora was too intrigued to refuse. Plus, she had plenty of time to make it back to the firm. Provided it was still in one piece with Galvan at the helm. While queuing for the elevator, Nora turned to Barbara and asked, "What's your middle name?"

"It's not Scoundrel," Barbara evaded. She stole Nora's cigarette again, this time for good. 

As forewarned, Nora had to fill out a sheet of paperwork and show photo ID before she was admitted to the studio's offices. They even logged the time of her visit. Once inside, Nora was hit by a tremendous inferiority complex. The studio made her firm look like a ramshackle treehouse. By every indication, there was _a lot_ of money circulating Corvega's marketing divisions and its employees were very well taken care of. It almost intimidated Nora to wonder what the Manhattan offices looked like, or even Chryslus' heart of operations.

"Is it like this in D.C.?" she asked Barbara. "The Chryslus building?"

"D.C.'s head office is actually pretty uninspired," she replied. "I saw it in person once. It's brutalist and cold. Corporate likes being drab, I suppose. It's what they're paid to be."

While passing through, Nora met a few of Barbara's colleagues. Each time, she introduced Nora as her attorney and Nora played along. She met Ray, a bright and friendly elderly man who dressed like an academic, and Clara, a middle-aged woman in cat eye glasses who was too busy to entertain them with small talk. They had nearly made it to Barbara's office when they passed an open cubicle. A tall, thin-framed man was sitting on the desk inside it. Nora estimated he could've been anywhere from his mid twenties to her or Barbara's age.

"Get what you needed?" he asked Barbara, who held up the camera's valise to indicate she had. He swung his legs before pushing himself off the desk and looked at Nora. "Who's she?"

"This is Nora Lambert," said Barbara. "From Howell, Lambert, and Shaw. She's my attorney."

Nora shook hands with the man, who said, "Dean Esposito. So, did our Barb get herself into some trouble again? I thought we had our own company advocates."

"It's a personal matter."

"Ah." Dean flashed an impersonal smile. "All right. I'll mind my own business. Nice meeting you, Nora."

"Likewise."

They encountered no more obstacles on the way to Barbara's office. She let them in, shut the door behind them, and sat down at her desk. It wasn't a typical desk, Nora noticed, but a tracing table. There were two cork boards on one wall, pinned to capacity with sketches and magazine clippings, among framed ad spreads from previous years. Other features included filing cabinets, books, and boxes of art supplies. Leather portfolio cases leaned against shelves and pencils were in mighty abundance. Nora could find at least one on every horizontal surface, all sharpened. No pictures of people, though. Not a one.

She had once been warned that artistic types were messy people, sometimes slobs. Barbara didn't seem to fit the bill. Her office was in no more disarray than Nora's after an eventful week. Although, that didn't mean it couldn't use some tidying. 

"So," said Nora, "where's your director?" She sat down in a squarish armchair while Barbara unlocked one of her filing cabinets and began rifling through it.

"That _was_ the director," she said.

Nora raised her eyebrows and issued a small breath of amusement. "That guy? Dean?"

It annoyed Barbara to confirm he was. "Marketing's been trying to appeal to the young people more," she explained. With a few select folders in hand, she shut the cabinet and scooted her chair back to its position at the tracing table. "And by young people, I mean anyone younger than us. Twenty-somethings and teens. They haven't been buying cars. They've been into motorcycles because they're less expensive and more attuned to the culture. With the war getting worse, youth culture has been more boisterous than ever. Protests, boycotts. So Corvega's trying to be more relatable. Trying to strike that balance between rebellion and tradition." She drew from the cigarette that had formerly been Nora's before opening a folder and leafing through its laminated pages. "Sometimes I think it's flat-out impossible."

"If they're trying," said Nora, "that's something. Most companies don't even budge when times change. That's why they die." After rising to wander about the office some more, Nora picked up a pen off the floor. 

"Well, sometimes you have to be decisive. You have to pick, because some compromises will leave you lukewarm."

Nora was quiet for several drawn-out seconds. She smiled awkwardly before saying, "This is going to sound... strange, but, when I was in college, I might have been part of a communist sympathizer movement." Unease had her lightly drumming the pen against her open palm, over and over, as she awaited Barbara's reaction.

It was surprise and interest, more than anything else.  

"So, yep." Nora kept smiling. "I remember being a kid. I got put on a watchlist for a while. Even had some government agent types on my tail for months. It was really scary."

"I'll bet," said Barbara. A furtive grin played on her lips.

"We all have wild ideas when we're young," Nora supposed. "It's easy to have ideas about something you don't understand, and even easier to have conviction. Sooner or later, though, most of us wizen up." She returned the pen to a cup on Barbara's tracing table, which she sifted through to investigate what other illustrating utensils she had at her disposal. "But sometimes I do wonder, would it be so bad to stay a little crazy? I mean, someone's got to. Otherwise the world would always stay in the same place. What I really mean by saying all this, is... maybe your ideas about the direction Corvega's marketing should take, is the bit of craziness that'll end up being the solution. Something to unify the rebels and traditionalists, the young and the old."

"That's encouraging to hear," said Barbara. "I'm glad for your vote of confidence. I really am."

Nora's smile was marred by hard thought when she glanced at her, then away again, at what she had removed from the cup: a pencil compass. "I've never told Nate that," she realized aloud. "I didn't think he would understand. He might've even hated me, with him being army and everything." She nearly flinched when Barbara's hand folded over hers, but it was only to confiscate the compass before she ended up pricking her finger on the sharp metal spike. 

Barbara looked at her. It was _that_ _look_ again, the one Nora still thought about all the time. Embracing silence and being, content to witness nothing but the raw, plain presence another person had to offer. 

"If you trust me with something like that," Barbara said, "then I can probably trust you with this." 

When Barbara opened the folder to the page she held with a finger, Nora drew closer to behold a concept illustration of a car. It was like nothing she'd ever seen before. Its aspect was forged in arrogance and cooled by intellect. Keen rivets streaked back from the front to sculpt a bold and determined personality out of an otherwise immaculate shell. Chrome accents on the fins melted into the taillights as though they'd been seared to a clean elemental sheen by afterburners. It was an organism. An exotic bird of paradise from planes of austere, chic geometry yet unexplored. A statement of optimism so aggressive and true it was volatile, and might have burned away at a single dishonest touch. 

"It's beautiful," said Nora.

Barbara agreed with an enthused nod. "November 2077," she said. "That's the projected launch. We're teasing it in January of that year. You know, after the holidays so people don't hold off on buying their Christmas cars. Some of the lead designers say it should be shown first in canary yellow, but, no. No, that won't do. Yellow's a fad. It passes. Red, however... Red is forever. A car like this deserves to be as red as red can be."

Nora reached out to delicately touch the laminated sheet, altering the way light wobbled off its surface so she could better see the headlights peering back at her. "What's it called?"

"It's called the Firebird," whispered Barbara. "The only car really worth being in love with."


	7. Chapter 7

**Sunday. October 6, 2075**

They bought a car. It wasn’t the 2075 Atomic V-8 from the Corvega dealership. It wasn’t even a Corvega. But it was still relatively new - just two years old - with a commodious interior, fresh tires, and a decent stereo system for the radio and holotape player. All for one hundred grand. It sat parked in their driveway, black as a beetle about to uncover its wings and take off, while the old Highwayman loitered ingloriously on the curb with a _for sale_ sign taped to its windshield.

Cindy Cofran made an offer on it within a day, a fair bit below their asking price, but Nate and Nora had mulled it over and were likely going to sell it to her. Nora would handle the transaction sometime during the week, since the Highwayman was registered in her name.

They honored Nate’s last day in Sanctuary Hills by sitting out on the front lawn with some of the neighbors, grilling hotdogs on the barbecue Nate rolled out from the backyard. The Sumners were over, as were the Nayars, the Parkers, the Whitfields, and quite briefly, Dale Hawthorne, who made a point of courteously greeting Nora and telling Nate he was “a brave dude” before wandering off again.

It wasn’t a good day for Nora. In fact, the entire week had gone downhill since she last saw Barbara, as reality started to loom over her work and personal life. The imminency of Nate leaving, of letting him head into certain bloodshed while Nora sat at home clutching her secrets, put her incredibly on edge. What if he died? Would she let him go in peace, thinking his wife was happy and eternally faithful? Or was it better to be truthful, to burden his final moments with the soul-crushing knowledge that his wife would eagerly cheat on him with another woman if given the opportunity? Either way, Nora was deceitful.

She didn’t know what to do, other than helplessly smile for the neighbors. Play nice in front of them, be a good host, and pretend like nothing was wrong. She’d listen to Linda boast about the expensive Mister Handy she and her husband bought last week. She’d ask Karen how her sons were doing in school. But once everyone went home, then what?

Maybe she would become reclusive like Juana Rosa. Maybe if she locked herself up and never left the house save for work and absolute necessities, Nora could forcibly shape herself into a model wife instead of the wayward liar she desperately ached to be.

Internally, she was a wreck. She wanted to climb out of her own skin like a cicada, frantic after years of quiet change and ready to live with reckless abandon.

Externally, Nora sat placid in a lawn chair beside Rachel and Prisha while Nate talked to the Sumners. Rachel asked about Nate's service and she obliged her curiosities. Given Nate's impending absence for an indeterminate amount of time, Prisha told Nora she was always welcome to dinner.

“You’re both so sweet, you know that?” she told them. “I really think that. I do. I see you around all the time and I love the life you have.”

It was the truth. They were so nice for considering her feelings, for noticing how detached she was today and striving to cheer her up. And it was so absurdly wholesome of them to think the only thing weighing her mind was a spouse going to war.

Prisha exchanged a mildly concerned glance with her wife before saying, “Well, thank you. That’s very nice to say. We’re definitely privileged since the war hasn’t affected us too much. But you and Nate - you’ve made huge sacrifices. I think it’s noble.”

“Thanks. Even though I don’t feel like I’ve done a damn thing.” The cheerful veneer Nora laid over her voice never broke, but it was this very consistency that betrayed it as a pretense.

The Nayars caught on and didn’t talk about Nate anymore. Rather, they let Nora ask them how they met. The story was as precious as she dreaded. Prisha worked as a florist and met Rachel when she walked into her store, completely ignorant of everything botanical and relevant to color theory, meaning to order arrangements for her sister’s birthday party. After Prisha taught Rachel a thing or two about floral design and helped her fill out the order, the pair stayed in contact and their relationship blossomed from there - no pun intended, Prisha disclaimed. They were sweet enough to make Nora queasy.

Nora privately recalled meeting Nate at a party in Chelsea. He was on leave at the time and she had appreciated how approachable, handsome, and reserved he was. He was nothing like his bigmouthed friends. They ended up in the backseat of her car at a drive-in theater and Nora dauntlessly gave him her phone number. Their clumsy passion pit romance was hardly a suitable topic for conversation, obviously, but she wasn’t even in the mood to tell the censored version. It felt so long ago, anyway. It was like thinking about different people.

In college, Nora learned in a biology class that most cells in the human body died and were replaced within ten years. By that knowledge, she and Nate and everyone in the world could be ships of Theseus, like her old Highwayman, floating aimlessly through life with only names tethering their identities to consistent land. And even names were funny things. They too could change. These days, Nora Lambert was only permitted to exist within the walls of her firm, and outside it she was someone else entirely. She was two people crammed into one.

Nora stuck to the sidelines when she wasn’t helping Nate or entertaining guests. Her favorite place to be was the lawn chair near the flowerbed. A small folding table stood next to it among a few other chairs so something could hold drinks. Eileen came to sit with Nora and the two of them sustained sparse conversation and shared an ashtray. Usually Eileen was never at a loss for something to gripe about. She was probably being decent by not burdening Nora with more than she was already dealing with.

At some point, Eileen rose and walked off. Nora wasn’t too concerned about where she had left to without a word, thinking it none of her business, until she happened to look out at the street. A red coupe was parked a ways down, and Eileen had gone to greet its driver with a hug as they emerged.

Some intangible organ in Nora’s chest writhed violently and plummeted. She didn’t move an inch. She did nothing but watch in silent horror as Eileen returned to her front yard with Barbara beside her.

Nate looked surprised and confused to see her, but nevertheless extended a hand in greeting. He smiled when she grasped his hand, patted his shoulder, and handed him a bundle of white socks with a teal bow on it. Quality ones, judging by a familiar label banding them together. To a fair, unbiased opinion, it was a practical and thoughtful gift, as any active soldier with sense knew to maintain their feet with as much care as their firearms. To Nora, it was an undisguised affront.

The moment she made brief eye contact with Barbara and saw her lovely smile soften imperceptibly to anyone’s notice but hers, Nora pushed herself up from the lawn chair and retreated into the house.

She couldn’t deal with it right now. She paced in the kitchen and dwelled on just how much she _could not_ deal with it right now. Any of it. Nora rubbed her forehead with the knuckle of her thumb, fit her cigarette between her lips for a hasty drag, and put it out in the sink. Her mind was racing. The sound of the front door opening and shutting ground her nerves to dust.

“Why’d you take off like that? I didn’t even say hi.”

Nora humorlessly acknowledged Barbara from the other side of the island. “I’m thinking.”

The prickly answer had Barbara lifting her eyebrows in surprise. She slipped her hands into the pockets of her houndstooth skirt, strolled over to the side door leading from the kitchen to the driveway, and looked out its window. “Looks like you stood up poor old Jim,” she said about the car. “I hope you called him. Otherwise, he’s probably still waiting on your visit.”

Uneasy silence flooded the kitchen when Nora didn't give a pertinent response. Instead, she spent several seconds trying to sift through her thoughts for something civilized. The best she could muster was a quiet, “Why are you here?”

Barbara turned away from the door. “Hey, I had no idea you put this together. Not a clue. You didn’t tell me anything. Are you actually upset that I came by while you’ve got a good chunk of the neighborhood over?

“This isn’t about me,” said Nora. “Today is for Nate, and you’re not even his friend. He sure isn’t yours.”

A shallow nod of understanding marked the end of Barbara’s geniality. “Well maybe I wanted to do a nice thing for him. I care about Eileen’s neighborhood and you and Nate are part of it, like it or not. And you know what? Maybe this _is_ about you. Maybe I wanted to see you.”

Nora made another escape on a whim. She departed down the hallway, and Barbara followed. When she tried to reach out, Nora turned around to confront her.

“No. Stop.” She lowered her voice to a hiss. “I’m tired of this shit. I’m tired of feeling like this all the time while you come and go however you please.”

“I thought this what was you wanted!" Barbara hissed back. "You said it yourself. You wanted to keep me around, so here I am. Now you’re suddenly telling me to fuck off like I’ve done something wrong? This is coming out of nowhere. Have you been drinking? ”

“Actually, I don’t think I’ve been so sober in my life. You know what else I am? I'm miserable. I’m miserable because I’m selfish.”

“You’re not _selfish._ You’re just unhappy. You need to figure yourself out.”

Nora found herself so unafraid to speak it paradoxically frightened her. “I think I’ve figured _everything_ out. I've spent my entire life wishing I were somewhere else, somewhere better. I know it's not ambition. I know it's not ambition because no matter where I am, it _hurts_. But whenever I’m around you, I feel... so goddamn happy. Content. Like I'm right where I should be. And I want that so badly, all the time. But you don’t want to ruin my life.” While slowly shaking her head, Nora said with solemn conviction, “Believe me, Barbara, I will do that all on my own.”

That gave Barbara pause. Nora never thought she’d see her grasping for words, yet there she was, temporarily disarmed. Eventually, she recovered and said, “You probably think this is easy for me, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t it?” It pained Nora to add, “You’re the one who’s moved on.”

Barbara smiled. Not out of mirth, but amusement inflicted by absurdity. “So you think I’m dragging you out to car dealerships, stealing your cigarettes, and coming out here with _socks_ for Nate because I forgot about you? Do you know how desperate and pathetic it makes me look? Just for an excuse to see you?” Her voice became a whisper so quiet the chatting neighbors outside nearly overpowered it. “Do you really believe I stopped thinking about you?”

Speechlessness found a new home in Nora. She stared at her, stern and disbelieving.

“I always think about you,” Barbara insisted. “But... I recognize this. A married woman, curious and willing, latching onto the first girl who pays her attention, who meets her standards. That’s you, isn’t it?”

She didn’t know how to respond to the accusation. It caught Nora so off guard that for an instant, she feared it was true.

“You’re all in right now,” said Barbara. “You’re _sick_ with unrest. Hell, maybe you feel this way because it's the first time you've been in touch with your sexuality. Maybe you just want an adventurous detour. A fling for the company, because you don't want to be alone."

“That’s not what this is.”

“And how do I know that? How do _you_ know that?”

For a few brittle seconds, they looked at each other so hard, in such proximity, that Nora felt the presence of a challenge. Before she even thought it through, she nimbly stepped around Barbara and started heading back down the hallway.

 _“Now_ where are you going?” 

“I’m going to tell Nate,” Nora answered over her shoulder, bewildered at herself for meaning it. “I’m going to tell him. Right now.”

Barbara pursued and grabbed Nora’s wrist before she could leave the hallway. “Hold on! Are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe I am. But at least I’ll be honest. I'll be honest with you, with Nate, with myself—”

She silenced Nora by gliding her hands up her arms, to her shoulders. One hand went further, resting against the side of her neck. Her thumb grazed her ear. Nora could hear her wristwatch ticking.

“Right now,” Barbara whispered, “just be honest with _me._ That’s all I’m asking.”

Nora almost trembled. She held onto Barbara’s arms, trying to steady herself. Trying to control herself. But when she slid her hands up to collar of Barbara's white blouse and met her gaze so full of austere hope and intention, she reeled her in to kiss her without another thought, and Barbara let her. There was a terrible lack of synchronicity at first, like two people speaking volumes at once while hearing nothing of each other. Hands fumbled, searching for places of reliable leverage. Lips fell off target, to cheeks, corners of mouths, before finding their way back. Nora barely had time to breathe.

Barbara pulled away long enough to ask her, winded, "Is this what you want?"

She kissed her again without giving an answer, and for a time, it was reciprocated. Nora tilted her head at the gentle bidding of a hand on her jaw, and delighted in the shiver racing down her spine as Barbara stroked the back of her neck on the way to holding her steady. While her fingers were in her hair, Nora would have done anything she wanted, including answering her question when it was repeated.

"Is this what you want?" Barbara asked again, more firmly than before. "I need to know. Now."

Initially, Nora thought it pointless to ask. There were few other possible justifications for making out with Barbara in her own home while her husband and a quarter of the neighborhood were gathered right outside. It was too stupid of a stunt for either to _not_ want it. The question turned out to be more than that once Nora bothered to clear her head to think about it. Barbara wanted to know if they were going to commit, while there still remained a chance for redemption. 

"Yes," Nora replied. When she leaned in again she was met with the same eagerness. Saying no hadn't even crossed her mind. Being with Barbara made her thoughts twist and smear like light rippling through water. She thought about how warm and certain she was. The intelligence in her hands and eyes. The fondness she conveyed with every touch of her lips. Nora hopelessly wanted to be closer, close enough for it to be painful. 

Half a minute passed, at most, before they were broken up by the sound of the front door opening. Stricken by panic, they pushed apart and raised their hands to each other’s faces. Footsteps sounded in the living room and increased in volume as the pair wiped smeared lipstick away with their thumbs. Eileen caught sight of them the instant they finished.

“There you are,” she said to Nora, but hesitated at the sight of Barbara close by. Visibly perplexed, she added, “Both of you.”

No one said anything for a while.

When Eileen noticed something vaguely amiss, she inquired, “Is everything all right?”

“Copacetic.” Barbara was uncompromising of any emotion. “Nora was showing me the way to the bathroom.”

Eileen gave them both a cryptic look before turning to Nora. “Anyway, I came to get you. Nate says it’s about time to eat.”

“Right,” said Nora. She left with Eileen, but Barbara couldn’t follow. She had to commit to her story and stay behind.

As soon as they were out of the house and under the midday sun, Eileen asked Nora, “What in the world was that?”

“What was what?”

“Whatever _that_ was. I wasn’t born yesterday, so don’t think I didn’t notice. Did you have a disagreement?”

Nora sighed as they descended the shallow porch steps and stepped onto the lawn. “It’ll blow over,” she replied. She didn’t even glance at Eileen.

“It better. I won’t stand the two of you fighting. You know why? Because sooner or later you’ll both want me to take a side and I do not want to be put in that position.”

“It’s fine, Eileen,” Nora assured her. “Everything’s fine.”

* * *

It was past nine o’clock and they were both in their pajamas.

Nate headed down the hall with Nora in tow, holding a cigarette between his lips. It was a rarity. He didn’t like being dependent on things. He said you couldn’t escape dependency on certain things like food and water, but you could be smart and eliminate other weaknesses. As a soldier, for instance, the last thing you needed while in the line of fire were withdrawal symptoms. Nate had a keen mind for pragmatism and survival. For building, managing, and enduring things tangible and true.

At times, Nora felt like his polar opposite. She concerned herself with theory, with relations and systems, the art of getting what she wanted by slipping into that twilight space between breaking rules and obeying them. While it was unbecoming of a lawyer, Nora had a special penchant for doing things she wasn’t supposed to, even things that hurt her. Always had. She was like a moth diving into a flame for light and warmth.

So it was curious to her, the sight of Nate smoking the night before his departure. It was habit of self-destructive indulgence she believed better suited to herself. She wondered if it meant anything. His way of saying farewell to luxury for months, a year, or more? Accepting that a chain-smoking soldier bled just as suddenly and severely as a soldier who hadn’t one in his entire life?

As he folded back the doors of a closet, Nate said, “Just to remind you, we have some non-perishables stocked up.”

A variety of boxed and canned foods lined the shelves. Instant mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, pork and beans - a bit of everything under the protection of indefinite expiration dates. Their stores would keep a person fed for about two weeks if they ate judiciously.

“In case the rationing gets bad,” he continued. “I don’t think it’ll come to it, but if it does…”

“I’ll be taken care of,” Nora wearily finished for him. “At least, long enough to figure something out.”

They’d been over this before. Nora anticipated everything Nate was going to tell her, and it annoyed her. But it gave him peace of mind on their last night together, so she let him for as long as she could stand it.

“Right,” said Nate, taking his cigarette out of his mouth. “Also, there’s notes in the car and they match our address book. If anything goes wrong, you’ve got repair and roadside assistance. You’ve got emergency contacts. There’s a folding knife and a flashlight in the glove compartment.”

“Yes, I’m aware. You showed me after we got the car.”

He shut the closet. “One more thing.”

They went into the bedroom. When Nate knelt beside the bed, Nora knew what was coming. He dragged out a small, portable safe and set it atop the bedspread.

“The combination is your birthday, but with the digits reversed.”

It wouldn't be the easiest mental gymnastic to execute while frantically arming oneself against a nighttime intruder, so Nora had dismissed the association and memorized the plain code as it was. After Nate unlocked the safe, he lifted the lid. Lying inside was a 9mm pistol, a revolver, and cardboard ammo boxes for both firearms.

“Be very careful,” he told her. “Both are loaded. You won’t have time if there’s an emergency. The 9mm has its safety on. With the revolver, pull the hammer back and it’s ready to fire. Remember how I taught you to hold it?”

“Two hands,” Nora answered with increasing impatience. “Eyes down the sights. Come on, cowboy. I know how to use a gun. I’m a damn good shot.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Just don’t get cocky. I’ve seen military personnel who’ve been handling guns for years - the ones who’re supposed to have all the etiquette down pat. You’d be surprised to see who gets sloppy. Anybody could.” Nate shut the lid, locking the safe again. He slid it back under the bed and rose from his knees to face her. “Look, I know I’m talking your ear off. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“The neighborhood’s a little nutty, but it’s hardly the crime hot spot. I’ll be fine. I can handle myself.”

Nate smiled. “Well maybe I want to feel like I had a hand in it.”

She regarded him with fondness and melancholy. When Nora extended an arm to him Nate extended one in return, and they hugged. She tucked her chin onto his shoulder, leaned her head against his, and knew for certain that she loved him. She always would. Even if she hurt him, she would love him. But it would no longer be a selfless love. That would be forfeited if she kept on the same course.

While lying in bed with the lights off, Nora recalled the day. Excluding her rendezvous with Barbara, things went as well as they could've. There was enough food to feed their guests and no one got drunk. No one overstayed either, giving them plenty of time to clean up and for Nate to finish packing a modest suitcase and laying out his service uniform for the morning.

Nora wished Barbara hadn't given him anything. Maybe she thought it was warranted because she was Nora's friend, but she didn't know that _Nate_ didn't know about them. From his perspective, it was completely out of the blue. Earlier, he tried to make sense of it out loud. He figured she wanted something, as expected, but couldn't surmise what. At least he was too preoccupied hunting the immorality of advertisers to consider Nora's role in it.

After their encounter, she and Barbara didn’t exchange another word or eye contact. Barbara stayed for half an hour - just long enough to chat with a few neighbors before she was on her way. She didn’t even have anything to eat or drink. It was impossible for Nora to tell if she was being discreet, remorseful, or both.

She thought about her all day. She unconsciously looked for her in the periphery of her vision, as though Barbara were standing nearby, watching with that clever expression of hers, hands folded loosely and coyly in front of herself. Even now in the hallway there seemed to linger a presence of their misdeed. It waited at the entrance of her bedroom; a dense, oppressive mass of memory. A living shadow. With the lights out it was palpable as ever, in the same way juvenile delusions so effortlessly manifested once the senses leaned on imagination. Nora's shame and adoration - a sordid, surprisingly common union of emotion - had almost gained form, and it was hell-bent on haunting her.

After all, it was Nate with whom she built her life. They spent years climbing out of empty-wallet drudgery to middle class comforts. They watched maturity bloom and cure in each other. These were the fruits of their combined labors, cultivated over many seasons from tiny seedlings. It had intimated them.

Nora didn’t share that kind of bond with Barbara, so how would anything ever last between them, especially if the sacrosanctity of marriage could shatter the moment a beautiful woman looked at her the right way? Nothing was secure. Nothing was safe. For all she knew, Barbara was right. Nora could be gambling everything over a shot at an affair that could fizzle out like a bottle rocket. Yet she still wanted to pursue it, with every Icarian atom of her being.

“Nate?” She whispered so she wouldn't wake him if he was asleep.

“Hm?”

The sheets rustled as she turned to face him. “Have I been a good wife?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” he muttered.

“I don’t know. I think about it sometimes. I know I can be a little… undomesticated.”

Nate said, “What, you thought I was in the market for a traditional housewife? I mean, if that’s what you wanted…” He shrugged. “Fine by me, either way. The point is, I’m glad you’re doing what you want.”

“Even when I’m out late, running around with my partners and clients?”

For humor's sake, Nate supplied, “Doing God knows what? Well, I’ll be honest. It’s not my favorite. But I do the same to you, and for much longer. It’s part of our jobs. And what difference does it even make, whether or not you have my approval? You’d do it anyway.”

With a quiet laugh, she swallowed down her metallic-tasting guilt only to have it disturb her stomach. “That’s probably true," she said. Her line of sight was directed at the ceiling so she could avoid his gaze, but she found that easier to achieve by rolling onto her side, her back facing him.Nora lasted ten seconds before tears started welling up in her eyes. She tried to will them back, but couldn’t. In the darkness, Nate didn’t notice until he heard her sniffle.

“What’s wrong?”

She brought a hand to her face, wiping away cold streaks with her fingers. “I guess I’m just going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you, too,” Nate plainly admitted. His hand found her shoulder, then slid down her back to make room for him to kiss her.“But you know… we’ve done this before. I'm sure we can do it again. Just one more time.”

* * *

**Monday. October 7, 2075**

Nate left on a train at eight in the morning. Kids and young teens raced along the platform, waving their hats and arms. The soldiers in uniform waved back. They leaned out the windows to catch a last glimpse of their loved ones amid a sea of somber faces, until the train outpaced those following it on foot, and left the station like a bolt of dull quicksilver beneath overcast skies.

After that, Nora didn't know what to do with herself. Nate's absence hadn't sunk in yet. It was peculiar, seeing families cry and hug each other as the crowds dispersed. She didn't have any feelings to share, and even if she did, there was no one around to share them with.

According to Nate, his folks came to see him off for his first period of active duty, but not again, because it was his career now. Him leaving was no more significant than a businessman transferring out of state. They loved him, certainly, but they also trusted him to be a _man_. A champion of self-reliance and grit, the captain of his own life. Whatever that meant, Nora mused derisively. She was grateful that Nate was the mild-tempered black sheep of his family. They could be too intense for her taste. 

In her numbness, Nora went to work. No one expected her to come in today, but she wanted to. _Needed_ to, rather, for the distraction alone. Before she reached her office, Gina accosted her, who was in possession of a few messages Nora had received while she was out that morning. She produced a piece of paper from the front desk and handed it over. Nora was to return the calls of two clients and "a gal named Barbara", who had conspicuously left no other information besides her first name. 

Gina touched Nora's shoulder before she retreated into her office and said, "You sure you're gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," said Nora. "Honestly, part of me's glad it finally happened. It's been like ripping a bandage off, except slowly. Not fast at all, like how they tell you to do it."

She replied with an effacing smile and let her be.

Nora shut her door, sat at her desk, and pulled her phone toward herself. Deciding whose call to return first was easy enough to be improper. She didn't even need to reference her address book while turning the rotary because she had memorized the number.

When Barbara picked up and realized it was Nora, she opened with a cautious, "Did he leave this morning?"

"Yeah," said Nora. "I dropped him off at the station earlier. I just got to the office."

"Are you all right?"

"I really wish people would stop asking me that."

"People care about you. You can't blame them for worrying." Barbara was quiet for a few seconds before remarking, "Yesterday was too close for comfort. With Eileen, I mean. Not what came before that."

Nora scoffed in wry humor, surprised at how casual Barbara was able to keep about it. "So, I know you and Eileen are close, but..."

"Nora, I would never tell her."

"Okay." She was relieved. "Good." After a pause, Nora went on, "Ever think about investing in non-smear?"

Barbara gently laughed. "I don't know. There's something fun about it, don't you think? A thrill?"

"Yeah, maybe as a fantasy. But for real life? I feel like we've brought new meaning to the phrase red-handed." Nora started scribbling on the front page of her notepad. A series of circles bisected by countless lines were born in black ink. 

"I'm sorry for leaving like I did," Barbara apologized. "I would've spent more time with you and everyone else, but..."

She finished for her, "The mood was weird. I understand."

"Well, maybe I can make up for it. You near any paper?"

Nora ripped out and crushed her doodle before dropping it into the waste basket beside her desk, leaving a fresh page for her to write on. She filled in the top line precisely as Barbara dictated. It was an address in Fort Point. 

"It's my apartment," said Barbara. "I've got a few days off this week. Well, more accurately, a few days I'm working from home. They're upgrading some water lines in the building - at least, that's what we've been told. If you can, I'd like to have you over to see the place. Morning, evening. I'm flexible."

"I... uh..."

Sensing Nora's obvious reservations, she reassured her, "I won't be too forward. I just want to see you for an hour or two. Just to talk, maybe have something to eat. That's it."

Nora lightly drummed her hand on her desk as she thought about it. "Maybe it's too soon."

"I see."

"I mean, if you give me a week?" The silence on Barbara's end inspired her to quickly add, "I'm not trying to push you away or anything, I'm just—"

"No, I get it. You're right. It is a little inappropriate, isn't it?"

"Barbara—"

"It's okay. I'll be around."

With some remorse, Nora said, "Okay," and let their conversation wane.

There was a knock at her door. Nora tore off the sheet she had recorded Barbara's address on, stuffed it into her jacket, and folded a hand over the transmitter. "Come in," she said.

It was Ben Howell, carrying two apparel boxes. Both were lavender. By his expression, Ben looked eager to talk and urged Nora to either end her call or wave him off if it was important. 

Nora removed her hand from the phone. "I, um... I have to go. I'll talk to you later, all right?"

"All right."

The moment she hung up, Ben dropped one of the boxes onto her desk. 

"What's this?" she asked him. Upon noticing the inscription on the lid, Nora partially answered her own question. It read _Mahoney Kent_ in stylized script and there was a name tag taped to it, listing her as the recipient.

"Gifts from our roommates," said Ben. "Take a look at mine." He pulled a sweater out of the other box he'd brought and spread it out by the sleeves. It was red and had a simplified design of a person on a surfboard stitched into the chest. They were riding a blue isolated wave and there was a palm tree in the background.

"Hey," Nora said with a smile. "That's pretty cute."

He turned it around. On the back was the phrase, _Bowl 'em over ten down._  

Nora's smile morphed into confusion. "What does that even mean?" 

"The hell if I know," Ben replied. He untidily returned the sweater to its box and tossed it into one of Nora's armchairs. As he pulled another chair to the front of her desk, his attention honed in on the second box. "Let's see yours. Go on, open it."

She did. It was also a sweater, in a women's size, striped irregularly by three shades of forest green. The colors were pleasant and Nora felt somewhat optimistic, until she lifted it out of the box and saw the writing on its front. "It's... in Urdu? Arabic?" Nora showed Ben, implicitly requesting his opinion.

He laughed. "Better grab a few bilingual dictionaries before putting that on."

"No kidding," said Nora. Perplexed, she continued examining the gift. "What's this about?"

"No idea. Gina got one too, but she won't show me. She seemed upset about it, oddly enough. I mean, I certainly won't get any use out of mine, but it's the thought that counts. Right?"

"Depends. What's the thought?"

Ben shrugged. "I'd say it's innocent neighborly friendliness, but I don't believe in altruism. They must be up to something."

"So, what? Do we owe them in return?"

"How could we? Unless they have legal trouble, I doubt we have anything to offer. Couldn't be plagiarism. It's hard to believe someone thought their line a good idea in the first place. Never mind stealing it."

Nora hummed in contemplation. "Weird."

"I'll say." Something Ben was thinking made him chuckle. "Want to know what I'll do with mine? Repackage it for Christmas. Give it to my brother-in-law."

Another knock sounded at her door. Before Nora could even grant admittance, Gina Shaw barged in and curtly snapped her fingers at them. 

"Up," she said. "Both of you, now. Let's go."

"What?" Ben turned around in his chair to look at her. "Why? What's going on?"

"I said let's _go_ ," Gina pressed them. "It's urgent. Be in my office within five minutes. Bring your client lists and billings."

Nora and Ben exchanged a worried glance before springing into action. The three dispersed, leaving Nora to gather her binders containing the information Gina had requested, although she still did not know what for.

She felt sick. Over the past week, everything on her account had collapsed with landslide severity. On the surface it might have read as a spell of bad luck, but Nora knew she was more responsible than any other force or person. Neglect, distraction, moodiness - all unprofessional contributors of mishandled cases and clients. She'd hoped to make a stealthy recovery as soon as she sorted out her personal problems and have her partners none the wiser, but that plan was under the guillotine's shadow.

When Nora emerged from her office, she rejoined Ben on their way to Gina's. 

"I thought _I_ was nervous," he said to her. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Do you know something?"

"No," she replied, then whispered, "It's just... Ben, things have _not_ been good lately on my watch."

He patted her back. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

They strode at a brisk pace down an aisle between cubicles and paralegal offices. Gina must have just blazed through like a storm, if the freshly frightened looks on employee faces were any indication. Neither returned the stares, thinking it prudent not to additionally alarm the firm. At least until they knew what they were supposed to be scared about.

Ben reached for Gina's door when they arrived and opened it without a knock. The pair filed in, shut the door behind them, and locked it. They located Gina at her desk, poring over scattered documents. At a glance, Nora saw that most regarded their finances. 

"Out with it, Gina," Ben said as he and Nora drew up chairs and sat down. "I don't like suspense."

She inhaled deeply and removed her glasses, setting them down atop her papers. "Mahoney Kent is leaving."

Disbelief set in their faces. 

 _"What?"_  said Nora. 

"They've been bought," Gina elaborated. "I was down in the mailroom with some outgoing. On the way back up, I ran into someone in the elevator. He was headed to our floor, so I asked what his business was. He said he was here doing inventory, counting bodies, supplies."

"Maybe it's just a routine audit," Ben suggested in vain. "Mahoney Kent's small. They've got to keep eyes on these things."

"That's what I hoped, until I confronted Mahoney about it. He came clean. They'll be out by the end of the month."

"That's total bullshit," Nora swore. "They told us they'd honor our arrangement through the end of the year! They must've been in talks for weeks _,_ and we don't even get a warning?Can they do this?" She looked at Ben.

He answered while holding a hand to his forehead, "They can. They gave us their word but it's not binding. Contractually, they only have to pay for as long as they're here."

"Mahoney said their new parent company's going to cover their half for the office space," said Gina, "for this month only. After that..."

"We're fucked," said Ben, lifting his hands only for them to fall back into his lap. "We're completely _fucked._ Just when we were about to get our own dedicated secretaries. There's no way we'll make rent at the end of November. There's no way. This real estate is meant for companies _twice_ our worth." He shifted in his seat to dig a cigarette and a lighter out of his suit pocket.

"Come on, Ben," Nora chided him. "You know Kent has asthma."

"Fuck 'em." He defiantly placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. "They want to put us in a grave, I'll take one of them with me."

Nora snatched it away and put it out on a metal stapler on Gina's desk.

Mildly annoyed by her solution, Gina shut her eyes to compose herself and say, "We're not dead yet. That's why I have all of us here. I figure, if we can get a picture of what's on our plate now and what's on the horizon, we can make some reasonable projections. We have options. We'll start by freezing applications. Downsize, if we have to. Worst case scenario, we move offices."

"No way," said Ben. "We can't move. How's us paddling out in lifeboats going to look to clients? We'll lose half our business!"

"So you'd rather go down with the ship and lose all of it? _Think,_ Howell." Gina sighed in frustration after she snapped at him. "I'm sorry, okay? Let's just calm down and go about this methodically. We can have our panic attacks later."

They all agreed and proceeded to review Ben's performance first. He'd made lucrative use of the business drummed up by the country club and hadn't suffered a single loss in court since the beginning of September. Gina had fared similarly well. While her partners were dutifully carrying their weight, Nora was a different story entirely. She set her jaw and tried not to wince as Gina read off every time a client was lost to another firm or when cases ended in disappointing verdicts. This last week, in particular, was brutal. When Gina came across Nora's recent failure on Friday, she couldn't hold back her criticism any longer. 

"What the hell is this, Nora? Why would you let Ybarra walk away from you on the eve of a settlement? It was practically done!"

"He was an idiot!" Nora defended herself. "I did everything I could for him. We asked high so they'd go lower and give us what we really wanted, but _no_. Ybarra decided he wanted it all. Our case wasn't strong enough for more! He would've gotten nothing if we'd gone for the suit!"

"Then you should've let him!" Gina exclaimed. "You'd lose the contingency bonus but you still would've been paid for the hours! You should've got your ass in the courthouse and dragged it out for as long as you could, draining him of everything he had! Now you have nothing! You have _nothing!"_ She closed Nora's binder in revilement. 

"Well maybe I would've had something if you hadn't wasted my time on pro bono work for your harebrained scheme! Which nothing has come of, by the way."

"It shouldn't have mattered! Ben and I passed the case to you because we knew you could handle it. _Nothing_  you've come by in the last month is new to you. I never thought we'd have to hold your hand through it!"

Furious and ashamed, Nora reclined in her seat and glowered. 

Gina closely scrutinized her and decided, "Something hasn't been right with you. It's like you're not even here."

After avoiding catching any heat from the exchange, Ben finally spoke up during the ceasefire. "I think she's right, Nora. This work... it's not like you."

"It's a bad streak," said Nora, weakly. "It'll pass."

"It needs to," said Gina. "I'm serious. It _needs_ to. We have to be all hands on deck from now until the end of November, just for a fighting chance at making this work. Look, I know about your... situation. And I'm sorry about that. But you need to come back down from outer space. You know we can't make it without you."

She nodded, stiff but understanding. 

"What do you think?" Ben asked her. "You need time to clear your head? We can still give you that, you know. Shit, if it's what you need to get back in the game, we'd be glad to. I've seen you on your good days. You could talk the spots off a cheetah. Right now you'd be lucky to talk the pants off a prostitute."

 _"Ben,"_ Gina warned him.

"You know what I mean," he said. "I'm just saying, we want our killer back. Giving you the rest of the week could be a smart investment."

"I agree," said Gina. "That's what I'd recommend to you."

Nora's gaze oscillated from her to Ben. "So it's what you recommend? Meaning, I don't have to if I don't want to?"

"Damn it, Nora," Gina said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We can't _make you_ do anything. I've never known anyone who could. All we're asking is that you think about the firm and the part you play in it."

While thinking about it, Nora gripped the armrests of her chair and released a heavy sigh. No matter where she situated herself, she would end up getting into trouble anyhow. She always did. Perhaps she even needed to, just to get it out of her system. At least this way, the firm wouldn't be caught up in it.

"Okay," she finally conceded. "Okay. I'll take... how's three days? Tuesday to Thursday. I'll check in on Friday."

"Sounds good," said Ben. "Don't be afraid to call. We'll be here."

Gina clicked a pen over a legal pad and spoke grimly, "Well, with that settled... we need to talk about who in the firm we can live without."

"Great. We can pack up some of those sweaters as part of severance," Ben quipped. 

They glared at him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Tuesday. October 8, 2075**

“I never thought to peg you as fickle, Nora. It’s not good for either of us.”

As she navigated the unfamiliar apartment building, Barbara’s words to her that morning still floated around in her mind like bits of flotsam. She was right, of course. Nora had turned on a dime regarding Barbara’s invitation to see her place. Accusing her of fickleness was wholly justified.

Nora didn’t know how to explain herself. What could be said? That her partners kicked her out for a few days because she was unwittingly sabotaging their business? That she couldn’t shake her persistent urge to do something profoundly stupid? Trying to explain would only make a bigger mess of things. The vaguest and therefore _best_ solution was saying she had taken time off and wouldn’t be able to again for a while.

Still, Barbara was remarkably accommodating. She must have really liked her, to have made time for Nora on so short of notice. Speculating so made her feel warm. Nora wasn’t even sure _why_  Barbara liked her. The majority of her focus had been the phenomenon of being liked in the first place, never mind the details.

While heading down the well-lit corridor of apartments, reading address numbers, Nora passed a woman with coiffed blonde hair and startling green eyes, who spared her an inquisitive glance and was gone. She suspected it was one of the residents reacting to an unfamiliar face and began to feel like an intruder. A final surge of nervousness gripped her when she reached her destination. Her knuckles hovered only an inch away from the door’s surface, hesitating in sheer unfamiliarity, until she bucked up the courage to knock.

The welcome Nora received made her anxieties seem silly. Barbara smiled at the sight of her in the doorway and ushered her in with an enthused kiss on her cheek, applied lightly to not leave any lipstick behind. Nora didn’t even have time to process the gesture, much less return it.

“Did you get lost?” Barbara asked. She sounded as though she'd been running, but quickly had her breath in check again.

“No,” said Nora. “Just caught the end of lunch hour traffic.”

Barbara took her light coat for her and said something else, but Nora didn’t catch it. Her attention was already drifting to the interior. Minimalism was championed, but in the department of color, bold flavors of orange, blue, and red stood in maximal statement against canvases of white. Abstract paintings and framed car advertisement prints hung tastefully on the walls, while accents of silver and bronze gleamed on a sunburst clock, the legs of tables and chairs, and lamps. From the modestly-sized front room, Nora could see a kitchen beyond a half-wall partition.

“Did you hear me?”

“Huh?” Nora returned her attention to Barbara, who stood several paces away. The warm autumnal palette of her multi-tone sweater played nicely with the furniture. She noticed that Barbara was in her socks and conformed, leaving her shoes by the door.

“I asked if you’d had lunch. Are you hungry?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” said Nora. “I ate earlier.”

Barbara’s hospitality persisted as Nora followed her through the front room. “How about something to drink?”

“I’m all right.”

They went into the kitchen anyway so Barbara could get a glass of water for herself. Nora was impressed by how she kept surfaces as white as possible to make rooms appear more commodious than they were. Because the apartment was quite small indeed. Perhaps it had to be. Housing was very expensive in this area, and even the healthy salary Barbara apparently raked in couldn’t purchase much more space than this. In fact, years ago Fort Point was among the first places Nora ruled out when searching for an affordable apartment.

“So, what do you think?” Barbara leaned against the countertop with her glass of water, letting the light from the window above the sink spill onto her shoulders.

“It’s nice,” Nora understated. “Really nice. How long have you been here?”

“It’ll be five years in January. That’s when I was hired full-time, at the start of Corvega’s fusion era. Those cars made a _lot_ of money. Speaking of Corvega - would you like to see my home office?”

When Nora responded affirmatively, Barbara led her down the short hall to the spare room. There weren’t any windows since it was on the interior side of the apartment, so she had to flip on the lights. Nora found it curious that while the rest of her living space was well-kept, her home office was as cluttered and busy as her professional one. There was a drafting table with a desk lamp aimed over it, and there were filing cabinets, a small blue couch, and a bookcase filled to capacity. Several volumes were shoved into the spaces between rows. Nora saw three metal tackle boxes stacked on the shelf of a console table.

“What’s in those?” she asked.

After sipping from her glass, Barbara replied, “Paints, pencils, the such.” She sat down at her drafting table and slowly swiveled in the office chair as she watched Nora survey her surroundings. “No more lures.”

She next investigated the bookshelf. Grouped together, in order of ascending year, were at least a decade’s worth of sketchbooks. Nora approached them but paused to ask first, “May I?”

Barbara pretending to think about it before answering, “Yes. As long as they’re dated after ’66.”

Smirking at her condition, Nora withdrew the sketchbook from ’67 and opened it. Its pages primarily contained drafts. Rough outlines of posters or studies of the products to be depicted. Nora saw kitchen appliances boasting exceptional sheen by smart application of pencil, and cleaning products surrounded by sparkling surfaces. Then, for a time, Nora flipped through nothing but toothpaste ads.

“I was still with an agency that year,” said Barbara. She strained to peer at what Nora was viewing at all times. “Believe it or not, that toothpaste was a big deal to me. It was first time they let me head an account’s art. We were spread a little thin at the time and I leapt at the chance to prove myself.”

“Ever done that for Corvega?”

Barbara scoffed. “Nope. Not yet, at least. It’s funny. By letting Corvega hire me, I was essentially demoted. If I’d stayed with the agency, I would've been a senior production artist by now. Maybe I'd be in the running for director.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Corvega’s tough and demanding, as it should be. Competition’s hot. Actually, I’m surprised they hired me on full-time in the first place, since I came in with a disadvantage. You see, I’ve never been good at drawing people. You’ll never see an ad with my people in it. They’re always drawn by someone else.”

In her current state of ignorance, Nora couldn’t rightfully be a judge of that. She flipped through many pages, hunting for something to base an opinion on, but humans seemed to be nigh extinct in Barbara’s art. Barbara joined Nora at the bookshelf to expedite her search, skating her fingers over several sketchbook spines before selecting the one from ’69.

“Once,” Barbara said as she leafed through, “my director said my people had no souls.”

When Barbara located what she was looking for, she showed the book to Nora. The page of interest carried an illustration of a couple standing around a premium vacuum cleaner. Nora closely examined their faces. Maybe it was only because Barbara had planted doubt in her head, thus leaving her biased by the power of suggestion, but something wasn’t right with them. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Anatomically they were fine, but they reminded her of dead-eyed mannequins.

Barbara was monitoring her reaction. “What do you think?” she asked. By her tone, she didn’t anticipate a stellar review.

“It’s dated a while back,” said Nora. “Maybe you’ve gotten better.”

“You’re just being sweet. You don’t have to be.”

Nora flashed her a guilty smile and shrugged. “I guess your calling is elsewhere.”

They returned the sketchbooks to their former positions and Barbara let Nora look at her most recent one, from ’74. As expected, nothing but cars lined the pages in pencil, gouache, and watercolor. They were good, _very_ good. Despite their lack of refinement, Nora thought many of them worthy of frames.

“You won’t find the Firebird in there,” Barbara cautioned her. “We only learned about it this year, and my current book’s in my work office, effectively quarantined until the big reveal.”

Nora _had_ been hoping to see the Firebird make an early appearance, but wasn’t too disappointed when Barbara dashed her hopes. It saved her the futile effort and gave her another idea.

“Can I watch you draw something?”

The request piqued Barbara’s interest, told by the light in her eyes. “Like what?”

They were standing at an almost intimate distance, but Nora’s temptation to make a move was only surmounted by her genuine desire to see Barbara draw. It was odd, her self-restraint. Nora couldn’t remember the last time she was around someone she wanted to learn about as much as she wanted to kiss them. Of course, save for individuals for whom her interest in either was negligible.

“A Corvega,” said Nora. “Maybe the one you drive.”

Barbara watched her while thinking about it, her expression too soft and obliging for her to possibly consider denial. “I live to entertain.”

They stepped over to the drafting table. Nora held onto Barbara’s glass of water while she pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, a ruler, and a few pencils of varying grades. She put down cubic lines to establish an angle, and used them as guides for the sweeping strokes that delineated the car’s outline.

“You start with motion,” Barbara told her. “You can’t have decent form without motion, without vectors. Otherwise, it’s just shapes on a plane.” She glanced up at a reference on her wall. “The things we buy… half of it’s fashion. If you look good, you feel good. When you’re driving, people see your car first, then you later on. So, these cars… need personality, just like their drivers.”

Nora folded a hand onto the back of Barbara’s chair while observing over her shoulder. The lines were messy with haste, but the coupe was cradled quite recognizably between the cross-stitch of graphite. A keen sense of volume and direction made the sketch liable to peel off the page and gun it away. Barbara switched to a red pencil. She pressed hard into areas of shadow and abruptly relented wherever shine was conveyed.

“Red’s always been a popular color for Corvega,” she went on. “Red is blood and passion. It’s the heart set ablaze, with any number of things. Too much anger. Too much love. Too much need for attention. That’s why it resonates with so many people. Everyone’s always trying to feel something they’re not supposed to, and sometimes red is the only way you can talk about it.”

She spent a few more minutes on the sketch. When she finished, Nora jokingly insisted she had to sign it, and Barbara did so before folding the paper and tucking it into a front pocket of Nora's pants. Nora was compelled to slide an arm around Barbara and lay her hand on her shoulder. The sentiment was reciprocated; Barbara wrapped an arm about Nora’s waist and leaned her temple against her ribs. It was a happy gesture. She adored it.

“We have a date now,” said Barbara, “for when we get to see the finished Firebird model in person. November twentieth, in Manhattan. We’re going to photograph it and start drafting the marketing campaign. I’ll sneak something out for you.”

Nora rubbed her shoulder while replying, “Well don’t go getting into trouble on my account.”

“What are they gonna do, fire me?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“They’d rather sue me than fire me.” Barbara surprised her by kissing her side.

If she was leaving any red behind on her dark blue shirt, Nora didn’t mind in the slightest. The attention had her overexcited. “Depends on your contract,” she said, keeping her voice level and cool. “I don't know how it is in your industry, but from my experience, most only sue employees if they attempted to sell intellectual property. Often, being in breach of non-disclosure ends in disciplinary action or termination. It can be bad press if you make a big deal of it.”

Her hypothetical legal advice was received with a dreamy smile. “I’d love to see you in court one day.”

“Get caught smuggling out anything and you might, if you hire me.”

They both laughed and remained there for a time, looking at nothing in particular but thinking about everything. Nora lazily rubbed her back while Barbara played with an empty belt loop on her pants, both content to be as they were, indefinitely.

“How’s your firm, Nora?”

The question had her temporary paradise melting away. She could’ve lied and said all was well, and let that be that, but she wanted to be honest with Barbara. It made her feel good. After drawing an emboldening breath, Nora told her about their financial trouble despite having no clever strategies to share when Barbara asked what they were going to do about it. They were just going to take on as much business as possible in a climate of utmost frugality, hoping to keep the lights on through the end of the year.

“It’s our own fault,” Nora admitted. “We didn’t handle the Anders case right. We gave ourselves bonuses when we should’ve been putting it away or investing it in our growth. I mean, look at us. Ben’s January wedding has doubled in budget. Gina’s eating like royalty. And I bought a house. If we’d kept that cash in the firm we wouldn’t be in hot water right now.” She had a thought and folded her hand over Barbara’s, stroking her with a thumb. “But I guess I can’t regret it too much. If we hadn’t been greedy, I might’ve never met you.”

Barbara regarded her fondly and decided to entwine their fingers. “So you’re still okay then, with… this?” The word was charged with implication. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I feel good about it,” Nora said earnestly. “I feel good about myself.” She was done feeling guilty. She’d willingly don the title of most inconsiderate person in the world if it allowed her to feel this free. “What about you?”

While Nora’s answer pleased her, having the question redirected at herself touched Barbara’s misgivings. “I’m thinking about how I’m such a fool.” She pressed her lips to their knuckles. “A damned fool who’s always in over her head, caught up in something or other.”

They let go of each other’s hands. Barbara had something to work on today so Nora left her alone at her drafting table and beheld the bookcase for a more comprehensive look at her personal library. There was a prevalence of car magazines and art books. An entire shelf was dedicated to work resources alone. Then came a small section of fiction, populated by classics and contemporary novels in similar proportion. Among them was a book with romantic cursive on a backdrop of roses decorating the spine. Its frivolity caught Nora’s attention. She reached for it only for the misfitted sleeve to come readily peeling away from a maroon cover. Nora saw the image of a soldier pointing at a single yellow star, and beneath that star was two lines of Chinese text.

Curiosity possessed her. She opened the book to lines of text printed in both English and simplified Chinese. Upon flipping to a random page, Nora was confronted by a diagram of a rifle with a silencer at the end of its barrel. She stole a glance at Barbara, who was concentrating on her work, completely oblivious to Nora’s emerging alarm.

“Um,” she vocalized, and confirmed she had gained Barbara’s attention by catching her gaze as it lifted to meet hers. “What the hell is this?” She raised the book.

Barbara immediately recognized what she had discovered. “It’s neat, isn’t it? The friend who gave it to me said they issue it to spies.”

“Is… is this allowed?” Nora was bewildered. “I mean, are you allowed to have this?”

She shrugged and set her pencil down. “Who cares? You can’t win a war if you don’t know your enemy. In fact, I’d encourage every American to read it. I think it could supplement us in a few departments where we’re lacking.”

Nora dryly supposed, “In the ability to silently assassinate a man at three hundred yards?”

“Subtlety,” Barbara said with a smile. “And that, too.”

She thought it was no wonder that Barbara hadn't been fazed by Nora's college-era sympathies.

Nora had her reservations, but she couldn’t bring herself to return the book without learning more about its contents. The forbidden was alluring by nature. It was the possession of the scarce. She settled down on the small couch and started on the first chapter: a rather effusive teaching on how to walk without generating noise. What to wear, how to distribute one’s weight with every step. Nora wondered if Nate had ever dealt with these operatives, although it was highly unlikely. Their skills were better suited to civilian realms or behind enemy lines in general, where important officials hid in presumed safety.

After a while, Barbara checked in on her, asking if she was bored. Nora said she wasn't, and that she hadn't read in peace for a long time. It was so quiet in Barbara's apartment. Nora almost missed the clacking typewriters and ringing phones of her office. Sometimes she couldn't even focus in absolute silence. It made her restless.

She didn’t feel so good after an hour of reading, and it wasn't due to the tranquil ambience. The book fascinated her, but it frightened her too. Learning its skills made her feel like a vicarious participant in the bloodshed and she didn’t like it one bit, the mere idea that others before her had absorbed these exact same words and went on to commit atrocities. Nora knew she was being sensitive, but it was too close to home to not feel strongly about it. 

Her mind brimmed with visions of war. Or how she imagined war, beyond photography and anecdotes. Those vistas of hell, of blood-spattered snow, carved by molten heat of violence. Nora couldn’t fathom how taxing it must have been on one’s mind. In the past she’d heard stories from military spouses about their beloved service members returning transformed in demeanor. It was as though black storms had rolled in behind their eyes and raged eternally, driving them to bouts of anger and sadness for the rest of their lives.

Pure avoidance had been Nate’s traditional countermeasure, but monsters lurked in the hearts of people whether they actively avoided them or not. Terrible monsters, vindictive monsters. They always showed themselves sooner or later, in one form or another. Nora wasn’t sure what scared her more: Nate contracting that ugly illness of deep-down volatility, or that he could kill dozens of people and live normally afterward.

Her eyes were starting to strain. She sat up to improve her posture and proximity to the room’s central light source in the ceiling. At the drafting table, Barbara was hard at work, but Nora wanted to talk to her as a distraction from the negative thoughts. She’d talk to her about anything under the sun.

“Do you think I’d look any good in glasses?”

Without turning away from her illustration, Barbara answered simply, “You’d be a vision.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m serious.”

Barbara finally looked at her. “Why? Do you need glasses?”

“I might,” Nora confessed. “I don’t do so well in dim light anymore. I can drive perfectly fine at night, but… reading tiny print isn’t like it used to be.”

“Do you need more light right now?”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

“Come sit with me.”

Nora accepted her offer by finding a spare chair near the door and pulling it up beside Barbara, who had shifted a bit to one side. The desk lamp provided all the light she could ever ask for, and she liked being close to Barbara. She alone could’ve made any room seem brighter.

“You can borrow that, if you like.” Barbara indicated the book by pointing the end of her pencil at it.

“You kidding me? I took time off from the firm to lay low after some bad calls. Bringing back rumors of sedition would be the icing on that cake.”

She chuckled. “No one’s going to know. People only know you have stuff like that when you make a show of it. Besides, our country’s attitude about information is all wrong. It’s just a manual. It teaches you how something’s done. Doesn’t matter what your politics are - if you’re opposed to acknowledging facts because you find them unsavory, you don’t have politics anymore. You have dogma.”

“Sounds familiar,” said Nora. “Throwing out bits of truth because they don’t fit a narrative. Lawyers are no stranger to it.”

“As long as you’re aware.”

Nora didn’t read anymore. She became preoccupied with watching Barbara meticulously refine the details of a monochromatic draft. It seemed at an advanced stage in the creative process, perhaps just an iteration or two before color and printing. An affectionate impulse had Nora resting her head on Barbara’s left shoulder, hoping she’d let her stay there. She did. She was right-handed and wasn’t disturbed. On the contrary, Barbara turned to kiss her head and Nora was pleasantly reminded of how many times she had kissed her today, always sweet and softly like she was something delicate or temporary.

Meanwhile, Nora hadn’t kissed her at all. She didn’t know why. She hadn’t been scared to before, but it was different now, somehow. Maybe she was scared of doing it wrong. Scared of degrading their precious relationship with maladroit advances. But there was nothing worse than not kissing her at all. When Barbara paused to switch pencils, Nora kissed her shoulder where her head had laid moments before. Her heart squirmed with satisfaction at the demure smile pulling at Barbara’s lips.

Not wanting to distract her too much, Nora soon retreated back to the couch where she napped to reclaim a few hours of sleep she’d lost the previous night. She dozed facing the drafting table, so when her swirling dreams grew shallow she would see Barbara and enter heightening tides again with her in mind, and dream about her.

Pencils scratching against paper, faintly-buzzing lights, rustling clothes. The sounds amalgamated and whorled in her head for a hazy spell of time that might’ve been five minutes or five hours. It was the only moment that had ever existed. Time lost meaning and the humble present eclipsed eternity.

Until Barbara roused her by placing a hand on her arm. It was going to be four o’clock.

“Are you kicking me out?” Nora's voice was weighed by sleep.

“Never. I wanted to tell you that I’m done for the day and going to make a drink. So you wouldn’t panic if you woke up alone.”

Nora closed her eyes and muttered in jest, “Shut up.”

“Do you want me to make you something?” Barbara’s hand drifted down the length of her arm to her wrist, to her fingers.

“What do you have?”

“Try me.”

“Whiskey sour?”

Barbara offered, “Want to make it a Boston?”

“Gross _._ ”

“Smart woman.” After squeezing her hand, Barbara tucked a few strands of hair behind Nora’s ear and rose.

They had their drinks and a few cigarettes at the small breakfast table in the kitchen. Barbara turned on the radio and they listened to the second half of a popular show. She mentioned to Nora that the show’s current arc was ending in a movie due in December. When she asked if Nora had seen the posters with the leading actress on them, she answered negatively. Barbara said her arms were to die for.

A bit after five, they toasted some bread and made sandwiches with cold cuts, sliced tomatoes, and provolone. They had nearly finished the meal when Nora belatedly noticed they were eating ham and inquired, disoriented, “Wait, you eat pork?”

That made Barbara laugh. “You do know there was bacon in the club sandwich we had ages ago, right?”

“Oh, shit. I didn’t even realize.” Nora started laughing too.

“Don’t worry about it," Barbara reassured her. "I don’t really observe anything. My heart wouldn’t be in it. Wouldn't be fair to people who really mean it.”

Nora watched her cigarette recede over her empty plate for a while before asking, “I know this is an odd question, but, what do you believe in?”

Barbara took a moment to think about it and light another cigarette. “I believe in people,” she decided. “What about you?”

“I don’t know," said Nora as new smoke wafted between them. “Depends on the weather.”

“So you’re practical about it.” Barbara nodded. “All right. I like practical women.”

"You know, I've been meaning to ask you about that. Why do you like me as much as you do?”

A duality of amusement and benign ridicule flickered in Barbara’s eyes. “You trying to talk me out of it?”

Nora sighed, smiled, and shook her head. “No. It’s just, you’re so... well put together. You have talent, looks, personality.”

“And you don’t?”

She pursed her lips, condemning the evasion.

“You want to know why I’m sweet on you?” 

“That’d be nice.”

Barbara swirled what remained of her drink. “You make me laugh.”

“That’s it?”

After setting down her glass, Barbara looked at the watery ice at its bottom and spoke authentically. “When I first met you, I thought to myself… now that woman is something. She either _is_ something or is going _to be_ something. I'm certain of it. It was just your attitude. Struggling, searching, wanting. Bravely chasing after peace and adventure at the same time, even when they mix so poorly it hurts you. You’ve always been that way - you told me so. You put an image in my head, of a candle that never goes out. Maybe by will alone.”

Nora's hands lightly fidgeted on the table. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or let the words bite savagely at a tender spot in her chest, the spring of her woes, dearest hopes, and all her tears. As typical of her, Nora resorted to humor. “You even thought that when I was drunk?”

“When you were drunk, all I wanted to do was take care of you.”

Embarrassed and grateful, Nora said, “You did.”

* * *

The brush hovered less than an inch from her index fingernail so Barbara could afford her a final chance to reconsider. “You sure?”

“Why not? It's sweet.” Nora sat with her on the floor in front of the television playing a movie to an inattentive audience. A few colors of nail polish stood on the coffee table, but only one was open - a blush pink. “Can’t go into court with it on, of course, but it’s hardly permanent.”

“I never took you for a pink kind of girl.” Barbara applied the brush to her nail, spreading the cool pigment in an even coat. Her well-practiced hands made no error. “Yet another thing I’m wrong about, I suppose.”

Nora rested her head against the seat of the couch and watched placidly, keeping her fingers spread while remaining completely amenable to manipulations of her hand. She admired the shallow crease of concentration in Barbara's brow, the sight of her faultless crimson nails attesting to her skill, and how gentle she was while holding her steady.

It was shocking, how much she trusted her. Barbara could've bent one of her fingers all the way back until something broke and Nora wouldn't have stopped her. She should've been terrified by that, but she wasn't. She wasn't scared in slightest because she also trusted that Barbara would never do such a thing to her. As if tuned to her thoughts, Barbara kissed the back of her wrist once she had finished with her right hand and collected Nora's left. 

Something made her hesitate for a second. Though she didn't say anything, Nora knew what it was. The gold of her wedding ring was asserting itself. It gleamed with reprisal as Barbara defied it, leaving behind clean streaks of blush pink so her presence in Nora's world would be known. But her claim was feeble in comparison. The polish would erode and be gone within days, while the ring would remain as pristine as it'd been on her wedding night. Nora wanted to take it off for now, but Barbara seemed to deliberately deny her the chance by painting the nail of her ring finger early. She didn't understand. Was Barbara punishing herself, or pitting herself against the odds? Nora didn't want her caught up in either.

The night stretched on. Barbara carefully blew a stream of air across her nails to dry them. When she finished, they watched the movie together and didn't speak. Nora laid her head on Barbara's thigh and clutched her painted nails to her chest, soothed by the fingers combing through her hair. She felt exquisitely warm and never wanted to leave. Part of her hoped Barbara was at least half serious when she said she'd never make her.

Maybe, Nora could abandon the sinking ship of her firm and live on this private island while her partners drifted away on the seas. She could disappear from Sanctuary Hills entirely and linger only as the whispered name of a ghost. But she wouldn't, because she knew better. Because Barbara would never let her. The guilt would kill her.

When the movie was nearly over, Barbara stopped running her fingers through Nora's hair to ask, "Want to go out for a bit? Have dessert?"

The idea puzzled her. "Where to? It's almost ten." 

"I know a malt shop just down the street. They're open until midnight." She added another positive, "It's a five minute walk."

* * *

It was quiet, as Nora had anticipated. The only sources of noise in the building were the kitchen and two teenaged boys talking and eating hamburgers several booths down. One rose to play something upbeat on the jukebox. That was when it started to feel like a parlor again and less of an empty waiting room with white stainless lights, tile walls, and enamel countertops.

She and Barbara had one scoop apiece of strawberry ice cream in small glass cups. Nora thought it charming, how the color of her dessert matched her nails. The whole trip was quaint, satisfyingly quaint. Aimless, almost, in its attitude of gleeful apathy. It reminded her of being a kid with nothing do to but wander around town until someone got in trouble or they ran out of locations to be bored in, except now she was happy to be here in this luminous, timeless space of idling. 

"My sister and I used to go to a place like this when we were teenagers," said Barbara. "She always got the same thing. A chocolate malt and french fries."

Nora scraped at the bottom of her cup, trying to collect the last melted drops on her spoon. "What did you get?"

"Ice cream soda," Barbara recalled with a smile. She was only half finished with her serving. "Nuka-Cola on vanilla."

"I was that one girl out of the group who'd have a cheeseburger while everyone else had milkshakes."

"That sounds like you."

Nora shot her a look of false annoyance, but moved on. "Do you still talk to your sister?"

"Rarely," said Barbara. She drew a steady breath. "She's been married a while. Has two daughters, last I checked in. The eldest should be eight by now. The other would be five. Three years apart, just like Ruth and me."

"What are their names?"

"Vivian and Abigail." Barbara retrieved a photo from her wallet and held it over the table for Nora to take. "She mailed that to me a few years ago. Abby was just a baby."

Nora examined the family photo. It was a little creased and worn from unknown stresses, but she could clearly make out the cheery faces of a man with dark curly hair, a woman who looked a lot like Barbara save for their noses and the shape of their eyes, and their daughters perched in their laps. Little Abby was only smiling because she'd been given a plush animal toy to hold, and Nora thought Vivian had eyes more alike Barbara's than her mother's. 

"They're precious," said Nora, returning the photo. "Do you ever visit?"

"No. Well, I did, but it's been a long time. The last time I was in Maine was ten years ago."

The math of it, when accounting for the ages of her nieces, depressed Nora a bit. She would've asked why Barbara hadn't seen them since, but she let it go once she noticed the topic depressing Barbara equally as much.

"What about you?" asked Barbara. "Do you have any pictures of family on you?"

Nora sifted through her handbag and shared what she had: a photo of her parents taken several years prior. It brought a smile back to Barbara's lips.

"You look like your mother," she remarked.

"I know."

"But that expression on your father's face - that's yours."   

"You think so?" She took the photo back to see for herself. 

Barbara spent a few more minutes finishing her ice cream. The teenaged boys had disappeared into the night, leaving them alone with a few other reserved individuals scattered about the shop. One was a man in a sharp business suit eating a large sundae all by himself. Another party was comprised of a mother, her school-aged son, and a few traveling valises. She was having a cigarette while the boy drank a milkshake. 

"I like being out late," said Barbara, softly. She too was peering out at the scarce clientele. "When it gets quiet like this."

Nora agreed. "It's kind of like being in another universe. Between two worlds."

"Like a purgatory. A sweet one, where everyone's lost but... it's all right. Because everyone understands."

* * *

It was cold by the time they left, even colder than it'd been while coming. When Nora glanced up at the heavily clouded sky she commented, "I think it's gonna rain," but neither made any attempt to quicken their pace of return. Rather, Barbara made the trip worth savoring by taking hold of Nora's hand. It left Nora feeling weak in her knees and so conscious of her own walking she feared forgetting how to walk altogether. Their hands fit together splendidly. All shivers stopped at the limb bridging them.

Of course, it wasn't enough to stave off the chill completely. Outside Barbara's apartment they stood only partially thawed by the building's heat. Barbara fished out her keys to unlock the door, meanwhile Nora eagerly awaited the chance to wrap herself in a blanket instead of her own arms. But Barbara inexplicably stopped with her keys dangling from the lock and looked at Nora, who had been closely watching her. 

Very quietly, Barbara asked if she could kiss her.

Nora admittedly didn't understand the question at first. Barbara was always asking her questions that didn't make any sense until they did all at once, and this was no exception. Barbara had already kissed her on numerous, spontaneous occasions all day, albeit chastely, but they'd done much worse than chaste this past Sunday. Express permission somehow meant something of considerable magnitude to her. Gradually, Nora realized Barbara just wanted to know if she was doing the right thing. It seemed like that was all she ever wanted to know. 

When Nora said yes, Barbara leaned in to unite their lips for a single kiss, lingering only for a few seconds. Long enough for Nora to grow accustomed, and brief enough for her to miss it once it was over.

Once they were inside, they slipped off their shoes. Barbara asked her if she needed to go home, and Nora found herself responding with singleness of mind, to the point of imprudence, "Can I stay?"

The question made Barbara momentarily stop shrugging off her thin coat, her arms still deep in its sleeves. "Is that what you want?" She continued removing the article and folded it over one arm.

"Only if you do, too."

Barbara eyed her perceptively. "You know what I want," she said. "I want whatever you want."

"Cut it out."

"Cut what out?"

Nora canted her head. "Really? Just give me a straight answer."

"I did." She approached Nora and captured one of her ice-cold hands between hers to share warmth. 

"No, you didn't. I don't want you to go along with me if it's not what you want. Are you scared of something?" Nora lowered her voice regardless of their safety from potential eavesdroppers. "You don't have to carry responsibility for this. It's my problem."

"I'm not scared of anything." Barbara spoke too swiftly for her statement to be free of secret burden. She looked down at their hands and rubbed a thumb over Nora's shallowly pronounced tendons. "I want you here," she said. "And by the way, I _do_ bear some of the responsibility, all right? I want to."

Giving a meager nod, Nora said, "Okay."

In her bedroom, Barbara handed Nora some spare clothes for her to sleep in and the two of them went about their business preparing to turn in. They didn't speak for at least fifteen minutes. It wasn't what Nora imagined. Not even close. Proper fantasies ordained a frantic scene of passion during the most clandestine hours of the night in some faraway, unmarked location. That's what an affair was supposed to be. But this... this made her panic.

Reckless idiocy, she could handle. Hell, she could even thrive in it. Cautious domesticity was another beast entirely. It perforated her with anticipation and dread over whether anything would happen at all, and if something did, would it be what she desperately hoped for or would it singlehandedly ruin this wonderful newness? Was not the state of wanting more euphoric than having? Having led to taking for granted. It led to decay. Nora was tempted to resolve she'd rather never have Barbara than to have her and watch them agonizingly fade with time. 

But if Nora didn't make an attempt now, she'd wonder about it until the day she died, and that was arguably a worse fate than losing something once beloved.

She lied on Barbara's bed with corpselike rigor, smothered by the feeling of wearing so much of her. Clothes, bedsheets, the scents of perfumes and soaps. These comforts anchored her, protected her from being swept away in the bad weather she had conjured herself. Nora raised a forearm over her face to appear deceptively at ease. Barbara was facing her closet. She had taken her sweater off, exposing her bare back to Nora's prying gaze before fitting her arms through the sleeves of a nightshirt and pulling it over her head, including the last cigarette of the day held between her lips. Nora pretended she hadn't been looking when Barbara passed the bedside on her way to the bathroom. 

"Want it?" 

Nora lowered her arm to see the cigarette offered to her. She took it, drew from it without delay, and kept it. 

Barbara hesitated with a hand on the doorframe. "Are you all right?"

"Why?" Nora sounded more defensive than she meant to. 

"No reason. Well, you seem a little... nervous as hell."

Her face grew hot. She knew Barbara had been thinking it, but Nora never thought she'd _say_ it. 

"You don't have to be," said Barbara. "I promised you I wouldn't be forward, and I meant it. Relax. You're okay."

Nora held her breath until the bathroom door closed. When she released it, she promptly started coughing on cigarette smoke. So Barbara wasn't expecting anything. Good to know, she thought. Except it wasn't, not really, because Nora wanted everything. She was just abnormally terrified about it. 

When Barbara rejoined her, she dimmed the lamp on her nightstand and laid her head on the pillow beside Nora's. She hadn't any makeup on after washing her face. Not even her red lipstick. Nora realized it was the first time she'd seen her that way, and she mentioned it to her.

"I could put some back on if it disturbs you," Barbara teased.

Nora smiled. "No, you look good. You always look good."

Barbara shut her eyes with a pleasant expression on her face. She looked soft and peaceful. "You know, I love it when you compliment me. You know how to make me feel special." She rolled onto her side and propped herself up with a forearm. 

"Come on," said Nora. They started trading the cigarette between them after Barbara temporarily reclaimed it for herself. "You must hear it all the time."

"You know how these things work. Every person in the world could call you pretty but it'll only matter once."

It was Nora's turn with the cigarette. Her drag almost spent it, so she passed it back to let Barbara have the last bit. Without saying a word, Nora reached out and ran a few fingers through the locks of hair tucked behind Barbara's ear. She let her thumb graze her jaw and admired her with more care than she would afford a priceless piece of art. 

"Aren't you going to say it?"

"Say what?" Nora asked on a whisper, only for Barbara to seize the hand touching her and press her lips to the center of Nora's palm. She failed to suppress the wicked shiver it sent down her spine, an earned reprimand for playing dumb.

"I'll beg for it, you know."

Suddenly flustered, Nora laughed nervously and said, "I thought you once raved about people needing dignity."

"I have dignity," said Barbara. "What I'm talking about is having fun."

"I know you're messing with me. Sure, maybe I'm easy target. Doesn't make it right." 

Nora couldn't uphold her artificial offense for long. She started involuntarily smiling again and fumbled their fingers together. Beneath the sheets, they encountered each other's legs and neither moved away in polite aversion. No, they were both incorrigibly rude about their personal space. Always rushing opportunities to be closer. Nora's mind swam with perhaps the nicest thoughts she'd entertained about anyone. She voiced the one she owed her, "I don't think I've ever met someone so pretty. God, you are _really_ pretty."

Barbara kissed her for the compliment. It was only meant to be once, but a second followed when they liked the first too much. Then a third, when the second didn't linger long enough to sate. Inevitably, they lost track as their hands gripped at hair and clothes, desperate for leverage. After Nora parted her lips to invite the depth she sorely wanted, Barbara stopped them early by holding her face and confessing a terrible secret, "I want to touch you." 

Nora pressed into the hand holding her at bay until their foreheads met at a single warm point. "I want you to," she said, doing a commendable job of not trembling. Not yet. The next time she leaned in, Barbara let her. 

She was beyond relieved to find that being with a woman felt like this, proving her wildest expectations pitiable things in comparison. Dull motes of reality. They would liken an ember to the sun. Not from cynicism, but from ignorance of what existed outside insularity. Nora despised herself for being without this for so long. 

Barbara slid her hands below her waistband and smoothed them down the length of her thighs and up again, from her knees to her hips. She reassured her, "I've got you," when Nora's breathing faltered, and kissed the side of her neck with devotion. She kissed her through her clothes, trailing down her chest to her abdomen, and to her lips again before pulling Nora's hips onto her lap, where she had folded her legs beneath herself. 

Hands rested between her thighs and massaged her through her underwear, warm and steady against her. Nora resented how ready she was and how that didn't seem to matter. Barbara gave her more preamble than anyone ever had, so much that Nora cursed her inability to distinguish ill-intended torture from graciousness. Before long, she was clutching at the sheets and panting at her mercy, mere breaths away from pleading.

"Easy," Barbara addressed her obvious impatience. "Take it easy."

Nora didn't want to take things easy. She wasn't sure she knew how to. 

Then Barbara paused altogether to kiss her cheek - a tender companion to the moment Nora finally felt her pressing a few fingers into her. She wanted to whine at Barbara's carefulness with her, at how she gently rocked her first thrusts into her and slowly eased her into more. Nora felt so vulnerable, so willfully compliant, open, and wanting.

Most surprising was that it didn't hurt at all. Was it not supposed to hurt, at least a small amount? A poignant twinge of emotion tore through Nora's heart when she realized it didn't have to. There wasn't any latent animosity in how she loved the way Barbara felt inside her, taking perfect care of her. She bit her lip while thinking about it. Her deep red nail polish. Her fingers, deft and kind, carrying her however she pleased. It turned her on more than anything else.

She'd never been very vocal during sex, but Nora couldn't contain a moan when she curled her fingers into Barbara's sleeves and tried to close her thighs around the hands pleasing her. Barbara held her still with an entreating grip on her waist, a few pseudo-threatening words, and soon after, ones of doting praise. It was almost too much. 

It was so much of everything that Nora thought she could die of it, and for a few select moments, she was certain she had.  


	9. Chapter 9

**Wednesday. October 9, 2075**

It was the coldest night since last winter's dying breath, but they hardly felt its bite. They didn’t make much use of it for sleep, either. Nora stayed half-awake to donate her hand to a loose union with Barbara’s, cherishing the glow of her company. Their fingers idly played and stumbled together in the dark. She was glad to be on Barbara’s left side so she wouldn’t have to touch her ring.

Neither said anything for a long time, but it was a soothing silence. Everything was perfect. The bones of Nora’s legs were dissolved in the warm blood coursing her body, infused with potent spirits of satisfaction. She weighed nothing and despaired nothing. She felt ruined but hopeful in the way decrepit structures were leveled to make way for something newer and brighter. Nora was nodding off when Barbara whispered, “When do you go back to work?”

Her grip tightened on Barbara's hand as she was roused. “Friday,” she mumbled. “What about you?”

“Tomorrow, at noon,” said Barbara. She kissed her wrist. “Well… today, technically.”

“Shouldn’t you sleep, then?” She rolled onto her side, curled up next to her, and shut her eyes again.

“No.” There was a smile in Barbara’s voice. She slipped a hand into Nora’s unbuttoned shirt and held her waist. “I like this. I want this for as long as I can have it.”

Nora pleasantly suggested, “We can promise to do this again soon.”

“I’d like that. But it wouldn’t be the same as tonight. It wouldn’t be new anymore.”

“You know, I’ve started to think maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

She thought about it before deciding, “I guess it isn’t.”

Nora leaned in to rest her cheek against hers, sweetening the returned embrace. She could sleep like this if it were practical.

“I want to ask you something peculiar,” Barbara said, softly in their closeness. “Remember when you told me you’ve never been to New York?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you consider coming with me on my trip next month? It’d only be for a few days.”

Nora pulled back to face her in surprise. “To New York?”

“I know how it sounds. I might be getting a little ahead of myself. But I thought I’d offer early so you’d know what’s on the table and have plenty of time to think about it.”

More than one reservation comprised her doubts. “I don’t know…”

“Am I out of line?”

“No, it’s not that,” she said. “The biggest problem is, I’m not sure what shape my firm’s going to be in next month. I wouldn’t take off and leave my partners alone if things aren’t going well.”

“I understand. There’s a lot of uncertainty.”

“But I want to.” Nora ardently wrapped her arms around Barbara’s neck, crossing her wrists behind her head. “I always want to be around you. It's like… seeing a new color.”

Barbara wove her fingers into her hair and kissed her until she blushed.

She couldn’t help but notice how they were diving into everything headfirst, sparing no thoughts for consequence or propriety and letting whim rule their actions. Although it was surely an authentic way to live, it maybe wasn’t the smartest. But why dial things back while they were both pleased? It was already hard to be pleased in the first place.

* * *

There wasn’t any rain, just a pale fog rolling in early that morning. It lingered for hours, softening the light, and made the city seem quieter and time progress slower within a private world encapsulating them. They woke and dressed with leisure, stealing frequent opportunities to trade affections. Hands were squeezed and fingertips dipped into waistlines. All consistent, dizzying reminders of a mutual fondness Nora could hardly bear.

They had some fried eggs. Nora was always curious to know how people preferred their eggs. She wasn’t picky herself. She’d eat them over easy to over well without complaint. Meanwhile, Barbara liked her yolks on verge of opaque, when they were soft and looked like resin in the middle.

Over coffee and breakfast, they discussed the New York idea with clearer minds. Barbara felt she had embarrassed herself by offering; caught up in the emotions of yesterday and letting them superimpose her sense of timing. But Nora still wanted to go. It was a terribly exciting prospect. There’d be so much to do and see in the way of landmarks, museums, parks, dining… If only her firm could scrounge up a miracle.

Barbara advised her to curb her expectations, because the core of the trip was indeed of a business nature and their time for fun would therefore be reduced. While that was true for Barbara, it wasn’t true for Nora, who said she'd explore on her own if she had to, and have a fine time doing it.

“In that case, why even bring you along?” Barbara joked. “Go yourself.”

By the time they finished breakfast and tidied up, the fog was clearing. Fresh sunbeams poured into the kitchen and glinted off the flip lighter Barbara had left on the table while she packed up the work she completed over the last few days. Nora stayed behind to have a cigarette and properly appreciate her surroundings. It was unlikely she’d be able to do this again for quite some time. Evenings and nights, maybe. But lazy mornings? December was the earliest chance for another occasion.

A knock startled Nora out of her brooding. She aimed her gaze over the partition at the neutral surface of the front door. For a few seconds she wondered if she had imagined it, until Barbara emerged with a portfolio case in hand. Similar disconcertion knit her brow. After leaning the portfolio against the front room sofa, Barbara approached her door and peered through the viewer.

The look she issued Nora almost scared her. It wasn’t alarm. It was more akin to dread or shame. Nora didn’t know what it meant, but she didn’t like it at all. Without saying anything, Barbara opened her door to a face Nora found strikingly familiar.

It was the woman she passed in the hallway yesterday. The one with the well-coiffed blonde hair and green eyes. She and Barbara spoke in hushed, urgent tones. Nora couldn’t make out their words, but her salient exclusion from the conversation had her worrying. Then the woman met her eyes, making her blood quicken. There was something feral about her gaze; a collision of mischief, amusement, and dilute sadism.

Once they reached an agreement whose details Nora was completely ignorant of, Barbara headed back to her room at a brisk, irritated pace. She didn’t even look at Nora, much less introduce her to the woman she’d left waiting behind.

But the woman noticed Nora and watched her without relent, completely immune to their status as strangers and the awkwardness that normally arose from extended eye contact. Two gloved hands lifted to unwrap the scarf around her neck and drape it over the back of a chair, along with her gloves and a black patent leather purse. Finally, while reaching into the pocket of her skirt to retrieve a tin cigarette case, she greeted Nora pleasantly, “Hi there.”

“Hi,” said Nora.

The woman lit a cigarette. As the smoke from her first drag veiled her eyes, she said, “So how do you know Barbie?” An indelible smile curled the corners of her thin mouth.

Nora’s palms suddenly felt cold. “I’m her lawyer,” she said on instinct.

She held the cigarette aside, her wrist cocked, and smiled wider. “Uh-oh,” she playfully teased. “Do you have a card?”

While Nora retrieved one from her wallet, the blonde woman came over to patiently fold her arms on the waist-high partition.

Upon receiving the card, the woman read aloud, “Nora Lambert. How do you pronounce that? French or English?”

“French, but it doesn’t matter. I respond to both.” Remembering she had a cigarette of her own between her fingers, Nora pulled from it to appear at ease.

“Is your firm taking new clients at the moment?”

“Absolutely.”

“Let me pitch a hypothetical. Suppose that somewhere, there's a last will and testament in dispute. Could you do anything about it?”

After resting her cigarette in the ashtray’s holder, Nora folded her hands onto the table and said with a professional air, “Disputes are generally overseen by the executor appointed by the deceased. Is there an acting executor?”

“Yes. But.” She breathed deeply while choosing her words. “What if I said there was a separate legal matter outside the executor’s prerogative? For example, alleged misconduct that could disinherit someone if they were found guilty of it? Could I hire you as defense?”

“It depends on what the alleged misconduct is,” said Nora. “I’m a criminal lawyer. My partner Gina Shaw is specialized in corporate law. Ben Howell has a lot of experience in personal injury and medical malpractice.”

The woman appeared satisfied. “Can I give you a call?”

“Of course.”

“By the way, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Jane Eklund. Nice to meet you, Nora.” A hand extended to her.

“Likewise,” Nora said and warily shook her hand before assembling no small amount of courage to inquire, “And… how do you know Barbara?”

Jane shrugged in sly nonchalance. “I’m her girlfriend,” she said. “We’re dating.”

A canyon of bleak emptiness opened up in Nora’s chest and swallowed her heart whole. Her fingers almost trembled as they delivered her cigarette back to her lips, pausing first so she could reply, “Oh.”

Barbara returned from the hallway carrying a few items. Nora identified a piece of clothing, a fabric satchel, and a comb. Barbara pushed the items into Jane’s arms before escorting her back to the front door. She seemed offended at Jane for having the nerve to approach Nora, but it didn’t matter anymore. The damage was done.

The two exchanged a few more intense words in the doorway. Jane was unruffled, but Barbara was quietly livid. Even after she shut the door, she refused to meet Nora’s eyes for quite an incriminating spell of time. She only did so upon returning to the kitchen, where she sat down across from Nora and looked grim.

“Who was that?” Nora’s voice felt hollow on her lips.

Barbara glanced down at her hands, displaying a severe furrow in her brow. “A coworker,” she said. “We were collaborating on a piece yesterday morning. She left some things behind.”

She caught her eyes again when Barbara looked up, and this time was able to hold her stare by clearly expressing indignation. In response, a shadow of distress spread across Barbara’s features.

In a very solemn, serious tone, she asked Nora, “What did she say to you?”

Nora firmly stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray to reroute the worst of her pain. “I think I would’ve preferred it if you didn’t pretend like I meant something to you.”

 _“Nora._ What did she say?”

“That she’s your girlfriend.” Her reply sounded like an imprecation.

Barbara closed her eyes and exhaled. “Please, don’t be angry. Let me explain.”

“Why? So you can try to lie again?”

She didn’t have anything to say to that, at first. Belatedly, she confessed, “I only lied because I was afraid. But she's lying, too. She not my girlfriend.”

“Why would she lie about that to a stranger?”

“Why would you _believe_ a stranger? You don't know her. You don't know that Jane's a compulsive liar, always trying to get a rise out of people.”

“Then what is she to you?"

Evidently, Barbara preferred silence over a truthful answer. 

Nora was incredulous. While shaking her head, she grieved, "Barbara, this is... this is so fucked up. She was here _yesterday,_  right before I got here. What's the matter with you?"

An undercurrent of regret carried Barbara's voice when she said, "I wish I could tell you that myself."

She hardly heard her. Nora was too fixated on the fact that Barbara had ruined everything. They had forged something perfect and sacred between them and she had gone and _ruined_ it. Looking to her side but perceiving nothing, Nora supposed, “Would that have been me, if we made plans first? Can you even tell the difference?”

“You know what?” Barbara abruptly shed her remorse for outrage. “You of all people do not get to guilt me for living my life the way I please. It is some presumption to think you’ve got any moral high ground here. I see that ring on your finger every time I look at you. I might not be honest all the time, but at least I don’t go walking around wearing one of the boldest lies there is!”

Nora pushed up from the table and prepared to leave. She could hardly breathe, she was so gored. As soon as Barbara realized what she’d done, she tried to stop her by taking hold of her wrist.

“Nora, please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She pried herself free and didn't look back.

* * *

When Nora made it home she unceremoniously flopped onto her bed, clutching her keys beneath her chest, and wallowed in self-pity. Sunlight warmed her inert body until the slow heat made her itch in her own clothes. Nora dragged herself out of the window's path, wishing she could disintegrate into the fibers of her bedspread and cease to exist. Anything to be spared the heartache.

She wasn’t sure who to be more angry at: Barbara, or herself for being so stupid. How could Nora have ever thought she was the only one in Barbara’s life? Someone that beautiful and charismatic would surely have dozens of options. And suppose her feelings for Nora were genuine - that didn’t mean there wasn’t room in her heart for others. Nora herself had already proven that possible. God, she was stupid.

It wasn’t unfair. Nora had Nate, and Barbara had… Jane, presumably. But it was still agonizing. Partly due to jealously, mostly due to deception or omission. From Nora’s informed perspective, the two _were_ different in the absence of subpoena. Either way, the reality was that Barbara knew all about Nora’s situation while neglecting to disclose anything about hers. And that, quite frankly, hurt like a bitch.

When she married Nate over two years ago, Nora had been so certain she would never have to feel this way again, like a vital organ was rotting alive inside her chest. Astonishingly, she couldn’t recall _ever_ feeling this over Nate, not even while they were dating. They had always gotten along because they hated bothering with conflicts that could be avoided, ignored, or quickly conceded.

Barbara was another story entirely. They were constantly stepping on each other’s landmines, heading straight to the core of things, ready to bleed for a conviction or indiscretion. 

Somehow, Nora mustered the willpower to occupy herself with a few household chores. She tidied up her bedroom, made a grocery list for tomorrow, and sorted some leftover moving boxes abandoned in the spare room. While she was outside checking yesterday’s mail, Nora ran into Eileen on the sidewalk.

“I didn’t know you were off today,” Eileen said upon approaching her.

Nora gave a diffident shrug. “I didn’t think I would be either.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. Just nothing for me to do right now.”

By Eileen’s expression she didn’t believe her, but refrained from prying. “Well, are you free? It’s Wednesday.”

It was. Nora glanced down at her watch to confirm it was nearly two in the afternoon.

“We’re headed to Karen’s today. Want to come along?”

“I don’t know.” She took a step in retreat. “I don’t think I’m up for it today.”

Eileen insisted, “There’d be a glass of wine with your name on it. It could do you some good.”

A wry smile pulled at Nora’s lips. “I try not to drink when I’m upset.”

“That’s fair. We won’t either.”

Nora appreciated the gesture of solidarity and ended up tagging along.

The Whitfield residence was exceedingly cozy. The furniture was old-fashioned and there were handmade crocheted throw blankets draped over the seating. An amateur painting of the family tabby cat hung near the fireplace.

Nora found herself in like-minded company, because no one except Linda seemed to be happy today. One of Karen’s boys got into a fight at school yesterday. If that wasn’t bad enough, he had lost the fight rather conclusively and felt more ashamed of that than the righteousness of the issue. Eileen was irate about the construction going on in the hills behind the neighborhood. Apparently, workers had been parking their trucks and vans in front of houses and leaving behind scrap and old tools in the gutters. They were building a shelter. Similar ones were popping up all over the country in case the worst came to pass regarding the war. Eileen said you could reserve a space in one for a price, but it was a nasty business anyway, capitalizing on people’s fear.

As for Nora, she had plenty of her own issues to contribute. There was Nate’s deployment, first of all. Then there was the trouble with her firm. The girls were very sympathetic when she summarized a general explanation for why she was among them today.

“That’s terrible,” said Karen. “Why would your partners ask you to leave when they need you the most?”

“They think I’m troubled,” Nora replied with a mocking raise of her brow.

Linda coolly said, “Well I can’t imagine what it must be like, not having your husband around for so long. And you said you two have done this before?”

She nodded. “Ironic how this time's turning out to be the worst, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it takes a toll over time,” suggested Eileen. “You used to be younger, too. Less tired. Do you call? Write each other, at least?”

“They don’t like us calling each other. I’ll probably get one per month at best. But we do write regularly.”

After they were done grilling Nora, Linda gladly spoke about her new Mister Handy from Hesters. Each unit came with a factory default name, but you could change it if you wanted. She and her husband kept its original name, Harrington. The newer robots were excellent at acting alive, so the manual had to insist they weren’t. It was just the smoke and mirrors of subroutines, enabling people to essentially have a butler they didn’t need to compensate while avoiding the moral indecencies of indentured servitude.

Hardly any of them listened to Linda. Nora might've been the only one, and her attention was already substantially divided. They were too caught up in their own problems. Eventually, Eileen got sick of the dreary atmosphere and said, “You know what we need? A change of scenery. An outing. Are any of you ladies committed this afternoon?”

Everyone said no except for Karen, who had to be home before six and would only participate on that condition. A few minutes were spent deciding where to go and what to do. Honestly, Nora wanted to go drinking until someone had to scrape her off the floor of a bar at the end of the night, but she kept her mouth shut and went along with the consensus: an impromptu trip to the Fallon’s department store in Boston.

* * *

“I _love_ fall and winter fashion. Furs and gloves. Warm scarves and luxurious coats.”

Linda was starry-eyed on the escalator, turning about at her waist to view the floors of vibrant seasonal selection. From where she stood a few steps below with Eileen and Karen close at hand, Nora tried to concur because that was her normal opinion. But right now it was hard to feel strongly about anything. The moment she set foot in Fallon’s she was nearly overwhelmed by an urge to lose herself in the model room mazes of sinks and kitchen cabinets and bathtubs. Or maybe the lighting showroom, where its armies of lamps might dispel the dark gloom conspiring overhead. She imagined herself staring into surreal mosaics of light until she contracted a migraine and started hearing phantom bells.

The escalator delivered them to the ground floor, where clothing retail was located. They had come from the third floor of the parking garage adjacent to the department store and had little interest in anything but apparel. Except Karen, who was excited for Halloween.

“I should start shopping now, right?” she said to Nora. “While it’s early and there’s a lot still available? Maybe they have some good deals on costumes or decorations. Do you do anything for Halloween?”

Their group strode between shelves of women’s clothes, over which a haughty array of mannequins posed in their carefully coordinated outfits, pinned to flattering misrepresentations of the garments on display.

“I used to go to parties,” said Nora. She stopped at one mannequin's feet to formulate an opinion about its shoes. “Until one year when someone thought it’d be funny to bring in a real pig’s head from the butcher. It smelled like hell.”

Karen was horrified. “That’s disgusting. Why are some people like that, all obsessed with gore and murder on Halloween? Whatever happened to sheet ghosts, candy corn, and dancing skeletons?”

Nora shrugged as they moved on. Several paces ahead, Eileen and Linda were looking at long-sleeved dresses. “I guess some people can’t get their thrills unless they see someone disemboweled. You know - less theremin, more waterphone.”

Everyone but Nora successfully preoccupied themselves. Karen branched off from the group to browse Halloween decorations while Eileen examined a rack of handbags and Linda carried a generous armful of clothes to the dressing rooms. Nora was too listless to invest in any diversion. She sat down on a bench outside the dressing rooms and privately cursed the no smoking signs posted around the sales floor. The bastards. Smoking was restricted to a secluded lounge upstairs, and that was too long a walk for her apathy-heavy legs to undertake. Her sad alternative was chewing on her nails, but she stopped as soon as she tasted bitter flakes of nail polish on her tongue.

“Why aren’t you trying anything on?”

Nora turned to see Eileen sitting down beside her and quickly lowered her hand from her mouth. “I don’t need anything,” she answered.

“Want to get something at the café?” Eileen tried again. “They have a special offer on sweet rolls and hot chocolate today.”

“No thanks.”

The pair sat in silence for an uninterrupted minute, listening to the store's jarringly cheerful music. It was particularly uncomfortable because Nora could tell Eileen thought it within her power to alleviate her foul mood. She couldn’t discern whether that delusion manifested out of genuine charity or a savior complex.

“How are things between you and Barbara?”

Rightfully paranoid, Nora was abrupt in asking, “What do you mean?”

“That fight on Sunday? Have you two patched things up?”

She inhaled for composure and relief. “Not exactly.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Remember, I’ve known Barbara a long time. Maybe I can be of help. Whatever it is, I assure you, it can be fixed.”

Nora remained pessimistic, but Eileen was right in one regard: she definitely knew Barbara well. Enough, perhaps, to possess context for a few behaviors Nora found highly disagreeable. “She’s so sweet and easygoing,” she said. “Then you piss her off or tell her she’s wrong, and it feels like she’s punched you in the throat.”

Eileen was morbidly amused by that. “That’s Barbara,” she attested. “How’d you upset her?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

They stopped talking when Linda emerged from the dressing rooms to solicit their opinion on a tartan midi skirt. She turned around in a full circle with a confident hand poised on her waist, but the skirt flared too much for Nora’s taste. While Eileen gave a diplomatic shrug, Nora bluntly shook her head. Linda’s high-held shoulders fell in exasperation and she went back inside.

“It does matter, by the way,” Eileen argued. “Some things aren’t worth fighting over. Other things are if they're really important."

Quietly, Nora disclosed to her, “She lied to me.”

Eileen nodded contemplatively before saying, “People do that.”

“ _About_ something important. She lied right to my face.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad.”

Nora felt her emotions creeping up to a simmer. The wound was still too fresh. It oozed blood through fingers struggling to dam that fountain of hurt, and there was no hiding an injury so severe. “Why would she lie to me?” she mused aloud.

“Nora,” Eileen sounded duly afraid of posing her next question. “What’s going on?”

She swallowed with unusual effort and pinched the bridge of her nose to conceal her eyes.

When Eileen realized something, she lifted a hand to cover the lower half of her face in astonishment, and only let it drop so she could hiss, “Jesus, Nora. Are you kidding me?”

Nora couldn’t even mount a proper defense. Queasiness swirled in her stomach and pounded in her head. She tried to console herself by remembering a mad sprint for the nearest exit was always an option. So what if some clothing racks and people were knocked over in the process? She could make record time. “I didn’t say anything," she argued to poor effect.

“No, but you’ve got it written all over your face.” Abhorrence set deeper into Eileen's features. She glanced about and clasped her hands rigidly in her lap, as if searching for a place to deposit her disdain so it wouldn’t detonate within herself. “I can’t wait to give that homewrecker a piece of my mind…”

“Don’t do that,” Nora pleaded. “It’s my fault. I'm the one who started it.”

“It takes _two,_ ” said Eileen. “God. Why would you tell me something like this? Now it’s my problem, too!”

“I didn’t tell you anything! You jumped out assuming things.”

“Because you made it so obvious!”

“Just forget it.” Nora glared hard at her. “It’s all screwed up anyhow.”

Another few minutes passed without a word exchanged between them. Linda briefly came out to a second lackadaisical reception, which she criticized as being of no help. Nora didn’t care. She was beside herself with mortification. She felt adrift in a fugue, lacking notion of origin or destination. She heard a voice on the store’s speaker but didn’t parse the words. Shoppers passed by, but they were mere washes of color in motion. The store could’ve been crumbling around them and Nora wouldn’t have registered the panic.

Eileen pulled her out of her withdrawal by asking in earnest concern, “What are you doing, Nora?”

“I don’t know. It just sort of happened. I can’t remember the last time I was really excited about anything.”

“Well you need a better reason for this than a cure for boredom. You’ll get bored of anyone if you know them long enough. You’ll get bored of her too someday, and then what? Back to square one, with nothing to show for it?”

Nora fidgeted her hands. There was a lump in her throat. “I think she already knows more about me than Nate ever did. How the hell am I supposed to feel about that?”

A grimace crossed Eileen’s face. “Are you afraid of being yourself around your husband?”

“Maybe,” she croaked.

“Even so, you’ve got to sort this out. You owe it to everyone involved. You can’t do something like this to him. He doesn’t deserve it, whether you’re good or not.”

Nora tightly shut her eyes. “I know.” She was surprised by an empathic hand on her upper back, preemptively comforting her. 

“Did she break your heart?”

Fearing she'd start to cry and make a fool of herself in public, Nora had to spend a long pause gathering enough nerve to say, “A bit," without succumbing to her feelings.

“Listen,” said Eileen, “I can’t support what you two have been up to. It’s wrong. But I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm and is completely willing to make things right if you give her the chance. If there's anything I know about Barbara, it's that she is _so good_ at hiding in plain sight. She’s warm, open, and frank, only for you to realize it’s how she distracts from the problems. You wouldn’t believe it. You want to know what she told me once, years ago? She told me she was lonely. Her, _lonely_.”

Nora's brow knit at the information. She met Eileen's eyes again, seeking truth in them. 

Eileen continued, “We're all broken somehow. We’ve all got damage. Sometimes things don’t go the way you planned, but it’s not always from ill-will. Sometimes we’re just stupid about other people’s feelings. That's why I think you should try to forgive each other and move on. I do. I think that’s the only thing you _can_ do at this point - hope for no hard feelings.” 

Karen's return to their group marked the end of their conversation. Nora barely uttered another word all afternoon, until Karen presented a pair of Halloween-themed socks that she bought for her. They were black with orange toes and jack-o'-lantern designs. While thanking her, Nora had to bite her tongue so hard to keep from sobbing that she almost sobbed nonetheless from self-inflicted pain alone. 

* * *

**Thursday. October 10, 2075**

Last night was spent alone watching old noir movies in the living room. Nora had a beer and ignored the phone ringing on two separate occasions.

She knew she had to follow the majority of Eileen's advice, because it was sound advice. That didn't mean it'd be easy. The truth was, Nora was terrified. Terrified of what Barbara might reveal, such as a habit of casual dating in which Nora could never hope to achieve the status of exception. Or maybe she was such a good _talker_ that all attraction was funneled toward the goal of getting Nora into bed with her and nothing more thereafter. Even _worse_ , maybe she was playing the role of rebound during an unstable period in Barbara's relationship with her not-girlfriend. She drove herself crazy with the escalating ideas.

A few minutes past midnight, Nora was dozing off on the sofa but startled awake when she felt her head drooping. Noticing the lit cigarette in her hand, with its burning end hovering a few inches above the seat, sent a deathly chill down her spine. She put it out and went to bed.  

In the morning, she called Barbara at her house. It was early enough to be sure she hadn't left for work yet. The call went about as expected. Both of them were timid and apologetic. Nora stumbled over her words and played with the phone cord to diffuse her anxiety until it tangled. After a while, they decided to hang up and meet for lunch to talk things out properly. 

Around one, Nora waited for her at the diner where they had a club sandwich last month, but she didn't order any lunch. She didn't have an appetite. Even if she did, her nerves would've upset her stomach anyway if she put anything into it. Instead, she had an iced tea to avoid being an entirely useless customer and tried to empty her mind while sipping it. She listened to the ambient clatter of utensils on dishes and all the indistinct voices, feeling drowned by them and infinitely small, like a spec of dust lost in a storm. 

When she saw Barbara enter through the front door, Nora watched her until their eyes met. Barbara looked as though she were considering a capricious retreat, but she willed her legs forward to the corner booth Nora occupied and joined her. Neither knew where to start. They looked at each other then stared at the red soap-streaked table for much longer. Barbara laced her fingers together in discomfort while Nora balanced her chin on her palm and poked at the ice in her drink with a straw. A waitress came by. They asked for ten more minutes. 

At last, Barbara said, "I won't see her anymore."

The statement had Nora reestablishing eye contact. 

"Regardless of what happens between us. It's not right. I haven't been a good person."

Nora heavily sighed as a wave of guilt crested over her. "Barbara, seeing multiple people isn't a character flaw."

"No," she said. Her voice sounded thin with tension. "But not being honest about it with you is. And I'm  _so_ sorry about that. That I've only let you see me at my best."

Nora had never seen Barbara so visibly contrite. Her ego was not quite large enough to ignore the likelihood that this involved matters beyond their budding relationship. Matters Eileen had touched on. "Look," she said. "Things got a little messed up. I, uh. I took it hard. We said some things we probably shouldn't have and made it worse. But I'm ready to listen now, if you'll do the same."

"Of course," Barbara said, earnestly. 

"I just… want to know why you didn't tell me."

Barbara nodded, finding Nora's concern a reasonable one. "I wanted you to think I was perfect," she said, dolefully amused. 

Nora smiled with identical sentiment. "I did." 

"And I guess I was scared," she continued, "that you'd take off once you found out I wasn't, and then I'd be alone again. I'm serious, Nora. Life is so much easier when I'm what people want me to be. All I do is alienate people the moment I let on too much. I make a colossal mess every time. It's exhausting. I mean, look at what I'm doing now. I'm fooling around with another married woman. Sometimes I wonder, is that all I do? Ruin things?"

"You haven't ruined anything," said Nora. "You made my life better."

"Until one day when it isn't," Barbara grimly prophesied. "Do you want to know what happened last time I did this? I was twenty-five, seeing a married woman much older than me, a little older than I am now. She was a phenomenal tennis player. Tennis was her whole life. That's how I met her - I was supporting a friend from college at a citywide tournament only to end up falling for the opposition after the last game. I knew she was married. I knew it all along, but I didn't care. Why would I? I thought she was an angel." She started folding the napkin into tight triangles and bit her lip before relaying the next part of her story, "And then her husband found out. They fought. He shattered one of her kneecaps so badly she could never play competitively again."

"Jesus Christ," Nora breathed. "She got the police involved, right?"

Barbara shot her a stern glare. "So what? Were the police going to fix her knee? I came into her life and ruined it."

"Stop saying that. You can't live like that, thinking it was your fault. You can't live thinking you only ruin things, because it's not true. You _make_ things. I've seen it."

"Do you want more proof? Do you want to know how bad it got by the time I left home?"

Nora was scared of hearing more, but she needed to and didn't stop her.

"My sister was the one who outed to me to my father," said Barbara. "She found some niche magazines I kept under my bed, along with a stack of love letters. Ruth told my father and we had a falling out over it. Then I remembered how she'd just bought her first car. She went through multiple jobs saving up for it and loved it to death. In the middle the night, I stole the keys and drove it out to a park with this steep hill overlooking a grove of basswood. I turned off the headlights, put the car in neutral, gave it a push… and watched it smash into the trees. And I felt good about it."

"I would say she had it coming…" 

Barbara shook her head. "I'm surprised she forgave me enough to be on speaking terms. People aren't supposed to do these things to each other, but we do.And I don't know why. Sometimes I'll be standing at the crossroads of a choice, and of my own freewill, I still find myself choosing whatever suits me even if it's wrong. I can't help myself. It's almost visceral. That's what happened with you. Being with you was the best I've felt in… ages. And it just kills me, wondering how I'll ruin it this time. Maybe I already did."

Nora reached over the table to take her hand. She felt odd and insecure touching Barbara in public. But no one knew them and no one would suspect they were anything more than friends. Women like them were easily invisible. "You haven't ruined it," she said. "You upset me though, you really did. Hell, I'm _still_ angry at you. I probably will be for days. But if that's what it took to get you to talk about this… fine, I guess. Ruin as much as you want."

"Why are you like this? Do you always detract with humor?"

"Only when I'm nervous."

She slowly and pensively rubbed Nora's hand. "The point is," said Barbara, "I want to do better. I want to _be_ better. With or without you, if it comes to that."

"Well, it's going to be with," said Nora. "If you ever think you're too fucked up, just look at me. You already know my deal. I drink too much and I'm never satisfied with what I have. You'll be in good company."

Barbara smiled with a hint of mirth, but there was tragedy in the expression. "Do you ever wonder, when are things finally going to be okay?"

Some incorporeal, sensitive thread inside Nora drew painfully taut. "All the time," she answered.

When the waitress returned, they put in an order for a club sandwich and spoke no more of their troubles. 

* * *

**Friday. October 11, 2075**

Several faces around the office were missing on the day Nora returned, undoubtedly thrown overboard to lighten their capsizing boat. There was nothing noble about their survival. Until safe harbor was sighted, they had no choice but to numb themselves to choppy seas and keep paddling, come whatever may. Ben accosted Nora as soon as he heard she was in, saying he and Gina were glad to have her back, although Gina was not currently available. She was out on a case, but Nora was somewhat relieved about that because she wasn't in the mood to have her performance closely evaluated all day.

"I guess your time off went really well," Ben said as he leaned against the wall of Nora's office, watching her settle in. A shaft of white morning light highlighted some airborne dust and made his suit look linty. 

She eyed him with suspicion. "How would you know that?"

"Got a call yesterday. From your new client? The note's on your desk. I said you'd be in today to return the call."

"My new client?" Nora echoed, confused. She flipped through a stack of memos and mail items to figure out what the hell Ben was talking about.

"Eklund," he said. "Sounds like there could be a lot of money in this one. Good job. Seal the deal as soon as you can, all right? 

Nora found the note Ben had mentioned and it confirmed he was telling the truth. Horror was her response. After sitting at her desk and alternating her gaze between the slip of paper and her phone, Nora cursed loud enough for Ben to hear, "Oh, shit."


	10. Chapter 10

_Nora,_

_Just wanted to let you know that I’ve made it to Canada all right. I can’t believe I forgot how cold it gets up this way. To make matters worse, we’ll be operating straight through winter. But I’m with some familiar faces, and the food and beds are plenty warm. Hopefully things are going well with you. Let me know what I’ve been missing._

_My first bit of pay should come in around the end of November. As soon as you get it, I want you to buy something nice for yourself. Within reason. I love you._

_Nate_

* * *

_Nate,_

_I’m glad to hear from you, although you barely wrote anything. Am I right to assume no news is good news? Anyway, here’s what’s been going on back at home (you asked for it):_

_My firm’s run into a bit of financial trouble. I don’t want you to worry about it, though. We’re going to be okay. But… if things get bad, I may need to use that first check to help bail us out. My partners and I have been discussing putting up collateral, or worse, allowing ourselves to be bought out. The good news is, I think I’ve come across a case that could push us out of trouble so hard it’ll line our pockets for years. Wish me luck. I know I can pull this off._

_I also wanted to let you know that I’ve made a friend of Barbara. She’s fun to be around and she’s always very kind to me. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I guess I wanted you to know since she’s not your favorite, and I don’t want you thinking down the line that I’ve done this to spite you, or anything like that._

_Halloween’s just around the corner. I’m putting out a second jack-o’-lantern for you. You know, those classic triangle eyes and jagged grin. And I love you too._

_Nora_

* * *

**Thursday. October 24, 2075**

On the twelfth floor of The Langley Hotel in South Boston there was perched a restaurant outfitted with crystal chandeliers and wood furnishings so rich and warm they embodied a hearth without fire. In their best business suits, Nora and Ben approached the hostess at the front and gave the name of their party. She led them through the booths and tables, the wild menagerie of guests and wealthy tourists, to the company of Jane Eklund and a man Nora did not recognize.

Hands were extended and shaken before they seated themselves at prearranged sets of dinner plates and wine glasses. It was Ben’s first time meeting Jane in person, and both their first times even hearing of the man in round glasses and a gray suit. His jaw was wider than his temples and his complexion was significantly darker than Jane’s, whose Scandinavian roots had her looking comparably pallid. The man introduced himself as Dr. Paul Clayton, a surgeon. Nora’s best estimate put Clayton in his mid forties.

“I appreciate you two coming out,” Clayton spoke on behalf of him and Jane. “It’s no small gesture. I hope our meeting place makes up for any inconvenience.”

It was past seven in the evening; after-hours. But Nora wouldn’t diminish the compliment. “It’s our pleasure,” she said, placing a pen and a compact pad of paper beside her silverware-weighted napkin.

“So,” Ben addressed Clayton, “are you Miss Eklund’s husband?”

“Half-brother,” Jane coolly corrected him. She lifted a glass of white wine and sipped it. Nora saw a lit cigarette poking out from between her fingers. Its burning end glowed like her garnet stud earrings whenever they caught the light.

“Oh,” said Ben. There was some residual confusion in his voice. “Then, are you interested in us representing one or both of you?”

“Just myself,” said Clayton. “I wanted Jane along because she’s a better judge of character than I am. I want to know whether you’re compatible with me. If I’ll be in the hands of good people.”

His humor was an elusive, indecipherable sort, and his eyes were so warm and forgiving Nora was inclined to paradoxically distrust him. In fact, the whole situation rubbed Nora the wrong way. Conducting business with your current flame’s ex _had_ to be verboten by some implicit social standard.

At least they wouldn’t be directly representing Jane. That meant less contact with her. She made Nora feel like a mouse stalked by a cat who wasn’t even hungry, just bored. Maybe Jane wanted to torture her for being suspiciously involved with Barbara, for so keenly hiding behind her occupation and denying her the competitive animosity she was due. It was entirely possible that Jane arranged this meeting merely for the satisfaction of dangling a juicy case in front of her firm only to reel it back at the last second and watch them despair.

A waiter brought complimentary glasses of water while Nora and Ben lit cigarettes for themselves. Nora tried to catch Ben’s gaze for a hint at what he was thinking, but he was fixated on their prospective client.

“You shouldn’t smoke, you know,” Clayton said at the gray haze floating over their table. “It’ll kill you.”

Nora lowered her cigarette from her lips without anything to say, but Ben had the sense to propose, “We can hold off, if it bothers you.”

“No. That’s not necessary. It’s part of our American identity and culture.” Clayton unfolded his menu and browsed the dishes. “How we love to destroy ourselves.”

Again, Nora was nonplussed. She kept waiting for a punchline or a sly smile to uplift the mood, but he gave nothing. Just bleak statement. Observation without recourse. It was conditional truth, tailored to ensnare only those it described.

With an open menu in her hand, Jane blandly muttered, “I’d rather die a decade or two early than go weak and senile."

Clayton paid her no mind, rather addressing the advocates instead. “Tell me about your firm.”

Nora and Ben both waited for Clayton to specify what he wanted to know, but he let his question stand. It was another cruelty. Ben came to the rescue by mentioning the size of their firm: twelve people strong, these days. They had structured the firm into unofficial departments, each overseen by a partner, but they overlapped more than most other law firms traditionally permitted. Nora said that lawyers with different specializations could produce new insights and strategies when they collaborated, but that wasn’t the end of it. Expertise was still required when deciding whether input was valuable in each circumstance.

“So you’re modern and up and coming,” said Clayton. “You’re untouched by corporate sway. You’re eager to grow.”

“I would say so,” Ben agreed. “We’d probably be able to give more specific information if you’re willing to share any details of your situation. There’s a reason why Howell _and_ Lambert are here, isn’t there?”

When he smiled, Clayton’s lips were the sole feature on his face to conform. “You’re right. I’m a little embarrassed; I wasn’t sure which one to approach. Jane told me your specialties and, well, I realized there’s quite a bit of overlap.”

“Then this case would require both criminal and medical knowledge?” Nora asked. It made sense, given Clayton’s occupation.

He turned to catch and hold Jane’s sidelong glance. Upon receiving no objections from her, he answered on a hushed voice, “I suppose I should outline a bit. I haven’t been charged with anything yet, but I know it’s coming. Sometime before the first of November, I’m going to need a lawyer. By that date, a certain autopsy will have been performed, and I have a strong feeling that I’ll be accused of foul play in a procedure gone south.”

“Okay,” said Nora. “Say no more. Especially in a place like this. But that’s all right. You’ll find that Ben has plenty of relevant experience. We can set a time to meet in confidence and discuss the specifics, if you like.”

“I’ll do that,” Clayton replied, “but I still want you both. I know you’re a small firm and having two partners devote their time to a single client would be hard on your resources. That’s why we’re having this dinner. Not so much to discuss a case, but to negotiate what I’m expecting of you and what compensation I can offer in return. Jane might’ve mentioned it, but my father recently passed and he’s left his children an inheritance that we can collect at the beginning of next year. Provided I maintain good morals and character. Not the literal phrasing, but you get the idea. In short, I plan to agree to a flat rate regardless of the outcome, plus a contingency if we win. How’s twenty million, to start?”

If Nora had spent an extra moment sipping her water, she might’ve choked on it. “Excuse me?”

“For the bonus,” he clarified. “The number is ballpark right now, so it might be different on paper. But hopefully it gives you an idea of how important this case is to me. And to Jane.”

Jane provided a fleeting smile. “I’m not related to his father, so I’m not entitled to anything. But Paul’s going to take care of me. I’m just as invested in this.”

Ben and Nora looked at one another with perfect joy and fear, a potent recipe for cardiac arrest. At least they were dining with a doctor.They ordered their food with as much casual mundanity as they could muster, but Nora was so excited she could barely eat.

Twenty million. What a sum to dream about. Fantastical as castles above the clouds or palaces beneath the sea. If they got their hands on that cash… Well, to start they could actually hire a real financial officer, instead of leaning on Gina’s concentration year after year.

Halfway through dinner, Nora decided she had too many thoughts circulating her head, stubbed out her cigarette, and excused herself to the restroom. The men rose to courteously see her off, as did Jane, who declared, “I’ll go too.”

Nora stalled and met her eyes, finding their expression dangerously pleasant. She suddenly didn’t want to leave anymore, but it was too late to reconsider. Her shoulders stiffened as she headed down the aisle of booths. Jane walked in her shadow.

In the restroom, Nora shut herself into a stall and stood glowering at the painted metal door, counting seconds. She had only wanted a few minutes alone, and damn it, she was going to have them even if they were to be collected in graceless settings. As expected, Jane was not the first to leave. Nora spotted her golden head by the sinks upon emerging from the stall. While washing her hands, Nora avoided making eye contact through the mirror Jane was using to touch up her makeup. 

“I’m sorry for being sour today,” said Jane. “I hope I didn’t offend.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Oh really? That’s good. I tried to keep my mouth shut for the most part. Shopping for lawyers is stressful enough without a hoard of personal troubles intermingling. It’s not your fault, but, I keep thinking of Barbara every time I look at you. Because you were there the last time I saw her.”

Nora rinsed the soap from her hands, shook them out twice over the sink, and reached for the paper towel dispenser. Never before had she paid so much mind to the full process of washing one’s hands. She broke it down to a science.

Jane drew and expelled a long, steady breath as the last other person in the restroom exited, leaving the pair alone. “I don’t even know what I did,” she said. “Maybe you’re not the appropriate person to confide in, but at least you know her. You have context.”

“Well, I’m sorry to admit I’m not very skilled at giving relationship advice,” said Nora. “Just legal.”

“That’s all right,” said Jane. “I only wanted to vent about it. She left me, you know. After everything we’ve been through, suddenly she’s pledging herself to some woman she’s known a month, or something like that. What a joke. I bet she said the same to the last girl. God, she never knows what she wants.”

Her hands were dry now, and Nora hadn’t any other measures to keep ostensibly preoccupied. She had to face her and respond, “You sure? Sounds pretty decisive.”

“She never knows because she _thinks_ she knows, then goes and feels bad about it. Always makes _you_ feel bad about it too, if you’re involved.”

“Listen, Jane. I’m just your lawyer, if you’ll have us. I’m really not qualified to intervene in your personal life.”

“Aren’t you?” Jane stared her down, the corners of her eyes pinching. “I guess I don’t blame you, but it’s a shame.” From her handbag she lifted a lip balm and applied some. “There’ll be more dinners.”

Warm hostile blood crept into Nora's cheeks. So there it was, a credible reason to consider Howell, Lambert, and Shaw, a tiny firm on a list of monolithic names. They weren’t here for Clayton. They were here for Jane.

“So what do you want me to do?” asked Nora. “Hunt down the new gal, throw a brick through her window?”

Jane smiled at the image but shook her head. “Nothing so violent. But I’d be very appreciative if you could get a word in to Barbara. Convince her to take my phone calls. I just want her to consider that she’s making a mistake. Who knows, she might listen to you. You’re married, after all.” Her eyes flicked to the ring on Nora’s hand. “Doesn’t that make you an authority on the topic?”

The intonation put a stab of fear in Nora’s gut. It almost sounded like Jane knew, and the mere notion made her nauseous. If Jane knew, she could hold it over Nora’s head indefinitely. She could make her _miserable_ with that information. Turn her friends and partners against her, turn Nate against her…

“I’ll see what I can do,” Nora conceded.

* * *

Traffic glistened under a light rain. Steady streams poured down the hotel’s awning beneath which Nora and Ben loitered along with several guests. Some, like them, waited for cabs while others tasked the valet service to bring their cars around. The ambient chill went right through her nylons, needle-sharp to the bone. Nora huddled further into the lining of her coat and wrapped her arms around herself. She was vastly unhappy.

Beside her, Ben inquired, “So we’re taking the case?”

Nora was perplexed that he felt it necessary to ask. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “Because with that amount of money on the table, we’re going to be their _dogs_. They’re going to tell us to fetch, and we’re going to fetch. And they know it.”

“We’re Clayton’s lawyers, not his personal assistants. The case might get rough, sure, but he can’t put too much extra trouble on us, because that’s bad for him too. It would divide our attention.”

“I’ve just got a feeling,” said Ben. “That bad feeling. You know the one?”

“Well, ignore it. We can’t afford to get cold feet. I’m serious, Ben. This could be life or death for the firm. We have no choice.”

He didn’t reply, leaving them quiet for a few minutes. The rain was starting to fall harder, pummeling the green canvas above their heads and rattling atop the hoods of cars. Dark foamy gutters sloshed onto the sidewalk whenever valets pulled up.

Dinner had been painful. No steaks because of the rationing. Jane furtively leering at her all night, eyes dark with omen. Clayton's waxy features straining to emote. Nora and Ben should’ve been ecstatic about this case, but the joy was already spoiled. It had soured and curdled straight to resentment. 

How could she ever tell Ben she felt exactly the same? That would leave both of them intimidated and uncertain. Since no one else was stepping up to the plate, Nora had to take a swing at being the rational party just to keep them on board. Her own grievances aside, the money involved remained a worthy boon to pursue. The question was how much torture they were willing to endure to get it. Cash was king but it also ruined everything, including their agency in choosing clients.

Well, Nora was determined to keep _some_ agency for herself.  Because hell no, she wasn’t going to be Jane’s wingman in winning back Barbara. She was even tempted to believe Jane was lying about Barbara consolidating attention in one specific companion. Such a comment was meant to cloud her judgement when deciding what to do. So went Jane’s clumsy logic: if Nora _was_ involved with Barbara she’d neglect or protest the errand, and if she _wasn’t_ she’d report back with good news and a call from the woman in question. But that was assuming Jane had yet to apprehend Nora’s situation.

No matter her strategy, one unsavory truth remained clear: Jane possessed the superior hand, armed with every advantage imaginable. She could torment Nora until she cracked, confessed, or backed off, with extremely little repercussion. And Nora would have to fight tooth and nail just to survive.

“How’s Darlene?” Nora asked, wanting to distract herself.

Ben inhaled at the mention of his fiancée. “She’s good.” He rocked on the heels of his shoes to peer out at the traffic. Whenever he brought himself up on his toes he made himself absurdly tall. “Say, were you ever nervous about getting married?”

Following some consideration, Nora replied, “No, not really. At the time I was certain it was what I wanted.”

A nod marked Ben’s understanding. “What’s it like two years down the road?”

“We’re still best friends.”

Ben gave a crooked smile. “That sounds nice,” he admitted, then laughed quietly when he had a new idea. “Ever wonder how things would’ve been if we hooked up?”

Nora couldn’t hide an involuntary smile of her own. “Nope,” she said.

“Come on. Not even a little?”

Their cab arrived. Ben opened the slick yellow door and let Nora duck in first. They gave the cabbie their destination: back to their work tower where their cars were parked. As the cab pulled away from the curb, Nora noticed Ben still staring at her, anticipating an answer. Yet again, she failed to maintain a straight face.

“How do you know it would’ve lasted?" she said. "We could’ve easily been a one and done kind of deal. You’re a bit of a card, Ben.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She teased him, “Nora Howell has a dweeby ring to it, anyway.”

Ben was more amused than offended. “That’s unfair. You hardly even use your actual husband’s name. Why’d you bother taking it?”

Nora glanced down at where her hands lay folded in her lap. Her wedding ring professed a ghastly pale gleam whenever city lights poured through the windows and bathed them. It was a sliver, a little dream of bygone sanctity. “It’s what people do, I guess," she said. 

* * *

**Friday. October 25, 2075**

The rain was worse on Friday. It pounded the windows of Gina’s office like a million fingers clamoring for purchase as they were carried by on winds howling through the towers.

The morning’s first order of business was calling a partner meeting to discuss the new case. Gina was too inundated with an environmental suit against Saugus Ironworks to help Nora and Ben beyond reaching consensus about how to proceed. She expressed the same concern Ben had last night, only her interpretation was different. The money involved would make these clients their center of the universe until the case was resolved, and if need be, she would have Nora and Ben _coddle_ them. They needed to be utterly dedicated.

“Set an appointment as soon as you can get them,” Gina said. “If they’re still looking, we need to be aggressive. We're a rabbit among wolves out here.”

When they adjourned, Nora hauled a typewriter into her office to transcribe the notes she took in The Langley’s restaurant. She unlocked a desk drawer and accessed her private stash: an untapped carton of Grey Tortoise - brought on her first day in the new office only to be told they wouldn’t be smoking for Kent’s sake - and half a bottle of white rum nestled in the company of two lowball glasses that needed to be rinsed of dust before their next use.

Yesterday was Mahoney Kent’s last day in the building. A few movers were the only ones left of their business, causing a ruckus as they tore down the cheap particle board walls. Today, Nora enjoyed the first cigarette their floor had seen since its last renters.

While typing up her notes, Nora received a phone call and paused to answer it. Her standard, formal greeting was met with cheer - Barbara’s cheer, incidentally. She was apparently in possession of news so fortunate it warranted stealing Nora away from the office earlier than planned. At least, in _Barbara’s_ mind it was warranted.

“Hold on,” Nora told her, adjusting the phone receiver more comfortably against her ear. “First of all, I’m too busy to leave early. Second, don’t we already have plans? It can’t wait until five?”

“No! Maybe I can visit your office in an hour to tell you.”

“You’d better stay put over there,” she warned her with levity. “If you come here I won’t get anything done for sure. Can’t you just tell me now, if it’s that urgent?”

Barbara sighed. She sounded positively anxious to spill her secret, so it came as no surprise to Nora when she lost her battle of self-restraint.

“I’ve been promoted,” she said. “Tonight, you’ll be looking at Corvega’s newest senior production artist.”

“Oh my God, are you serious?” Nora hadn’t known what to expect. Indeed, this news was better than any guess she could hazard. “Geez. Congratulations. This is big for you, isn’t it?”

Barbara’s pride was audible. “It is. What it means is, I’ll be overseeing the juniors and have a more lateral relationship with the director. He can’t get rid of me unless marketing’s on board too, because I’m a _valued asset.”_

“Did they just tell you this morning?”

“Yes ma’am. Remember weeks ago, when I was telling you about my ideas to give Corvega more dynamism?”

“The sexy car stuff, right? I remember.”

“Exactly,” Barbara confirmed. “Well, it turns out my latest experiment left an impression. The director of the creative department and some marketing execs wanted to have a word with me over conference call. I talked to the head of marketing, Jay Thorpe. Funny thing… he asked if I pronounced my last name like a German. I said, well, I’m an American. Do Americans drive Volks or Folks? He answered, Volks. Then I said, I would attest to neither being true. Americans drive Chryslus.”

Nora laughed. “He must’ve loved you for that.”

“He did. He said he was glad to know he’d have plenty of wit to draw from in the coming days. He said there’s no better time than now for innovation.”

The tone Barbara adopted led Nora to suspect she was leading up to something else, something of great magnitude and specificity. “Wait,” she said. “You can’t mean…”

“I think they’re starting to consider people to head the Firebird project. And now that I have a senior position, I’ve got a ticket in that lottery.”

Nora bit her lip in excitement, smiling hard. “Now I really wish you had told me tonight. I’m going to be thinking about this all day instead of work. I’m going to be thinking about you.”

“You’re sweet. I’ll be thinking about you all day, too.”

After they hung up, Nora couldn’t settle into her prior state of concentration. All she could think about was how Barbara would smile at her come evening, stoking the little undying flame of adoration set inside her chest.

Things were so good right now, terribly good. They often met for lunch on workdays, for dinner on the weekends, and slept together when they could; typically on days when neither had commitments the next morning or when they could afford to turn up late. And the moment they’d part, Nora would always find herself eagerly anticipating when she’d see her next. She'd daydream about her. She'd daydream about the freckles on her back and the reverential way she'd look at her when Nora gripped her hair in the heat of things. 

Initially, Nora believed being with a woman would be a daunting, highly exotic ordeal. As it turned out, she was just paranoid of embarrassing herself with her inexperience. Yes, it was unfamiliar, but it was also _completely_ familiar, both at once, for more or less obvious reasons. It hadn’t been too difficult to adapt, consequently, and Barbara was a _paragon_ of patience and encouragement. She couldn’t have asked for better company. Or better results. 

At five in the evening, she slipped off her wedding ring and deposited it in the pocket of her pencil skirt. 

* * *

Nora met Barbara at her apartment. She was going home with her after they had dinner, where she would spend the night in Sanctuary Hills. They hadn’t done this before and Nora was duly nervous about it. Not about their date itself, but about the danger of someone seeing them. The average neighbor wouldn’t think too much of it, but once gossip pathogenically spread to Eileen, they were done for.

Shit. Nora had almost forgotten about Eileen. She told her she fixed things, that the trouble was resolved, but her ambiguity put Eileen under the impression that Nora had ended the affair which was, in simple terms, not the case at all.

As always, she felt better with Barbara alongside her. Both huddled together under an umbrella as they approached the apartment’s parking garage. Barbara wasn’t wearing lipstick because she intended to kiss Nora and ruin it anyway, and besides, lipstick was for days when they could be caught. An enhancement for thrill. Nora still didn’t know whether she was joking or serious.

Once several strata of concrete came overhead, Nora closed her umbrella, shook the water from it, and tucked it under her arm. Barbara held her hand and excitedly relayed more about her new position. Its creative freedoms and authority, its proximity to actual preliminary design and concept. She’d never spoken so avidly about anything else. Her enthusiasm made Nora’s heart feel turgid with empathetic glee, so she squeezed her hand and kissed her rain-dappled knuckles, thinking Barbara deserved the whole world.

In the car, Nora shrugged off her raincoat and tossed it onto the back seat, where something else lied waiting.

“Don’t laugh, but… I got you something.” When Nora righted herself in the driver’s seat, she brought with her a small bouquet she’d bought on the way over. From its cellophane cone burst an arrangement of red carnations cuddled by little white flowers Nora was too uncouth to know the name or meaning of, only that they were pretty. She had been very deliberate in avoiding Prisha’s store. “To celebrate your promotion.”

Barbara accepted the flowers with an impressed smile. “You really did,” she said, examining the velvety petals. “What a sweetheart. You’re _everything_ , aren’t you?” Finding Nora’s sheepishly gratified expression, she bid her, “Come here.”

She leaned over the space between their seats to receive a kiss. Barbara’s clothes and hair smelled like rain and perfumed soaps, suffusing without boundary into Nora’s sense of taste, and sweetening their brief connection.

Dinner was quiet and cozy. The rain deterred business and secured them an isolated booth. Barbara brought the flowers with her and laid them on the table, aiming the overflow of petals at herself so she could admire them longer. Their waiter knew and understood when he saw them, when he saw their fond dispositions toward one another, and Nora wasn’t upset that he did. The anonymous visibility felt good.

At home, Nora turned off her headlights immediately after pulling into her driveway and the pair accessed the house from the side door. From there, they were free to roam within closed curtains over every window.

Nora handed Barbara several old Boston Bugle newspapers to be unfolded and laid out over the dining room table while Nora retrieved markers, two stubby serrated knives, a metal serving spoon, and a large bowl to collect pumpkin guts in. Then came the pumpkins themselves: two well-rounded, bright orange specimens selected from the local grocer’s stand following ten minutes of picky indecision. Barbara was rolling up the white sleeves of her dress shirt when Nora brought over a pack of cigarettes and informed her, “You left these here last week. On the liquor cabinet.”

“Maybe I left them here for you,” she said. “You’re always asking me for one.”

“Well, maybe it’s better that way. Knowing my voice, I’ll sound like gravel before I hit fifty. You’re enabling.” Nora insisted she take them by nudging them closer to her hand.

Barbara slid the pack into her skirt pocket and asked, “You trying to cut back?”

She shrugged. “A doctor said something that made me consider it.” At the concern creeping into Barbara’s features, Nora added, “It’s not that. I just know a guy. Besides, I haven’t decided whether I will or not. Just a thought.”

“Well, you know what I’d say. Whatever you decide should make you happy.” Barbara pulled out a kitchen chair and had a seat at the table, where she claimed a black felt-tip marker and rotated one of the pumpkins in search of its best side.

Nora settled in as well and began outlining the triangular eyes and nose of her nascent jack-o’-lantern. Their markers softly squeaked against the pumpkins’ waxy hides.

“Did you celebrate Halloween as a kid?” Nora asked. “Trick or treating and the like?”

Barbara used her thumb to erase an error. “Not until I was a little older,” she replied. “My father wanted nothing to do with the occult in any shape or form. My first time out, I went secretly with my sister. I was ten. We made our costumes by hand days prior, hid them at the back of our closet, and snuck out after dark. I must’ve brought back at least a pound. I remember liking the sour candies. The ones that made your jaw hurt because they were so sour?”

With a smile, Nora rose from her seat, saying, “I know them,” and went to fetch some paper towels to serve as more effective erasers. While she was up, she peered over Barbara’s shoulder at the detailed ghoulish face she was drawing. It put her own pumpkin to shame. “Oh, come on,” Nora grieved. “If you keep on like that, I won’t be able to put it out. Everyone in the neighborhood will know I didn’t do it and they’ll ask who did.”

“Say you used a stencil.”

Nora rolled her eyes and returned to her chair, allowing Barbara to continue her masterpiece while she lamely plied her childlike talents.

“What was Halloween like for you?” asked Barbara.

“Well,” Nora recalled with distraction, “I’d have to go all the way to the city suburbs to trick or treat. When Halloween fell on weekdays I’d leave school with a friend. I’d have my costume ready in my backpack and everything. I’d sleep over, eat half my candy in one sitting. Then on November first, my mother would pick me up and make me a proper lunch at home because she knew I’d need it. A ham and cheese sandwich with a glass of milk always settled my stomach.”

Barbara said, “That’s sweet. I guess out of everyone, my aunt played mother to me. When I lived with her, we’d always watch scary movies on Halloween. Of course, we were constantly interrupted every time a kid came to the door.” She finished her illustration and turned her pumpkin around to face Nora. The inked face snarled at her.

She sighed heavily at the superior display of craftsmanship, but she let Barbara go ahead and start sawing out the pumpkin top. The aroma of guts and inner rinds diffused through the kitchen, pungently sweet and sour as they were piled into the bowl at the center of the table. Right as Nora prepared to follow suit, Barbara stopped and held her hands out over the newspaper. They were covered in stringy orange pulp.

“Nora, do me a favor? Can you tie my hair back?”

Nora set down her knife and rounded the table. There was a spare hair tie in Barbara's skirt pocket, she was informed. Her fingers stumbled past the pack of cigarettes Barbara had stowed earlier while retrieving the tie, collecting in her palm the warmth of her thigh radiating through her pocket lining. Nora pulled the tie onto her wrist before gathering Barbara’s dark hair into her hands, letting no strand of adequate length escape her strokes, while being careful not to pull on it. Once she was done, Nora lowered her hands to Barbara’s shoulders, squeezed her with understated affection, and drew away.

They carved their pumpkins in comfortable silence, listening to sheets of rain patter against the house, based by brisk rolls of thunder. On occasion, they brushed her knees together beneath the table. Neither showed remorse for being in each other’s space. It was precisely the way they liked it. 

Nora lowered two cheap drugstore candles into their jack-o’-lanterns once they sat hollow and complete on the newspaper, side by side, and lit their wicks with a few flicks of her flip lighter. Through the pumpkins’ faces seeped a warm gentle light, dimmed relatively by the fluorescent fixtures overhead.

It had crossed Nora’s mind to turn out the lights for a proper viewing when the room went dark of its own accord.

“Either I _really_ need glasses, or…” Nora let her dry statement hang without conclusion. When the darkness stayed, she cursed under her breath. Thanks to their jack-o'-lanterns, they weren’t completely blind, but a pumpkin-lamp for every room was beyond her budget.

Barbara appeared less concerned. “Got any more candles lying around?”

There was a flashlight with a new fusion cell in the kitchen drawer, and Nora retrieved a box of candles from the laundry room. They lit several and distributed them around the kitchen and living room. One on the fridge, another on the stove, on the coffee table, and the liquor cabinet.

Their plans to watch a movie or listen to a radio show that night were indefinitely postponed, at least until the blackout was over. Alternatively, they lounged on the sofa with Barbara reclining back against her. She lied her head on Nora’s chest while Nora drew her arms around her middle and spied the beastly grimaces of their jack-o’-lanterns flickering from their perch on the kitchen island. On the other end stood the bouquet in a vase of water and a dissolved aspirin tablet, still looking proud and prim under feeble light melting their colors into a vague watercolor wash of orange.

Had Jane ever bothered to buy flowers for Barbara? Nora was doubtful. Jane seemed the aloof sort - itinerant yet entitled to things and people she had not equitably devoted herself to. Time after time Barbara insisted they had never formally dated, and Nora believed her. Evidence and details were not necessary. For one, Nora didn’t want to hear what their history entailed. It made her sick with jealously. Second, she was inclined to trust and believe Barbara after her admission of fault, now that she understood her better. Meanwhile Jane had shown herself to be conniving at best, and vindictive at worst.

She needed that to be their standing difference. She wanted to know Jane had wrongly implied that Nora was an ephemeral habit replacing Barbara’s last; a balm for loneliness. But what if that was all they were, all anybody could hope to be for someone else? A bit of respite in the void? Nora had to be okay with that possibility. She had to be okay with meaninglessness, with imperfect attraction and visible seams. People mashed themselves together hoping to stick and she had to be okay with the desperation of it.

But Nora wasn’t sure if she could do that. She wanted sense and security. Certitude. She’d spent her whole life tying herself down to heavy things so she wouldn’t float away in the confusion, or to hold herself back when all she wanted to do was crash through the fabric of everything. 

"I talked to Ray about you at work the other day," said Barbara. Nora felt her words as much as she heard them, vibrating inside her chest and stirring the depths of her into self-consuming friction. "Well, not _about_ you, as in us. More like, he brought something up about an autumn fair near your hometown. I asked if he remembered you. He didn't at first, so I said, dark shoulder-length hair, cute nose? And he remembered."

Nora rubbed her spare hand along Barbara’s upper arm, liking the way her neatly-pressed shirt felt, and daydreamed. She gazed at the candles around the room and their serendipitous contribution to romance, wondering how they’d look in her bedroom, or how Barbara might look exposed in their votive glow. Nora was becoming so susceptible to clichés it was almost embarrassing, but then she supposed in her own defense, certain things probably ascended to cliché status for good reason.

"That's about it," Barbara went on. "All I can say without letting on too much."

Distracted by her own musings, Nora almost didn't hear her. She felt Barbara take her hand and slide her fingers into the spaces between hers, holding them captive to each other. 

"But I've always been unlucky with love. Can't seem to catch a break."

"Love? You really want to use that word outright?" She'd only meant to tease.

Barbara replied, "Sure. I don’t know why people are so weird about that word. They put it on a pedestal and only take it down to use in writing. Or they argue about the semantics. ‘Don’t use it so much, only use it at this time, but frame it right or it means something else’. I’d appreciate being allowed to love someone at every stage of a relationship. Otherwise, why’s it happening? Give and take as much as you need.”

Nora wanted to feel elated, but her thoughts had drifted back to Jane Eklund. Jane _fucking_ Eklund, worming back into her head during a private moment because Nora couldn't stop wondering about Jane's private moments with Barbara. She just couldn’t stop validating her as a threat, and she scolded herself violently for it. After all, Jane hadn't even lifted a finger to inflict this damage. So what did that portend for the future, once _real_ conflict ignited?

After noticing her grip closing tighter around Barbara’s hand, Nora relented. “Can I ask something sensitive?”

“For you, I’ll be as sensitive as you want.” Barbara likely thought the matter wasn’t serious, judging by how she delivered the quip with cool disregard.

“Did you really stop seeing… you-know-who… on your own terms? I mean, did you do it because it was already headed that way? Or did I pressure you?”

Barbara pondered her question. Due to their position, Nora couldn’t see her expression and hated the wait preceding her reply of, “A bit of both. But not how you think. You were a factor, but you didn’t _make_ me do anything.  I don't want you to feel insecure or threatened by her. I only liked her because she was available and I was alone. It's different with you. I don't like you because it's convenient. Hell, it's the opposite. I like you _despite_  the inconvenience. But Jane? She could be very dishonest and selfish."

An impulse to say, _Aren't I the same way?_  brought the words to edge of her lips, but Nora stopped herself, ultimately saying nothing.

There was a light pounding on the front door, causing Nora to bolt upright so quickly she almost pushed Barbara off the couch. Once they were on their feet, Nora rushed to the door, looked through the viewer, and paled bone-white the instant she saw an exasperated Eileen standing on her porch in a raincoat and umbrella. 

"It's Eileen," she hissed over her shoulder. "You need to hide."

Barbara was confused by the urgency. "I do? Why, can we not share friends? What's she got to be suspicious about? Eileen should mind her own business."

Nora folded a hand over her forehead before hastily gathering up all immediate evidence - Barbara's coat hanging on the back of a kitchen chair, her purse, the flowers on the island - and handing them to her. "Go to my bedroom and close the door. She won't go looking."

"Nora, just let her in. Don't you think you're being a little _too_ paranoid? It'll show."

A short, frantic sigh left Nora's lips. She had to tell her. "Barbara, she knows."

While Barbara processed what she'd been told, Eileen knocked on the door again, more insistently than her first attempt. Then a smile appeared on her face, amused and just a _little_ nervous. "She doesn't know," she said in denial. "She couldn't know. If she did, I'd have gone deaf from her shaming a long time ago."

The severity of Nora's expression didn't change.

"You're serious."

"She thinks it's over," said Nora.

They scrambled. Barbara did as Nora suggested - albeit with some indignity - and absconded to her room with her belongings, leaving Nora to safely answer her front door to one unhappy, rain-drenched Mrs. Sumner. Eileen shook out her umbrella before stepping into the house. 

"Hello, Nora," she said breathlessly. Eileen was wearing a sheer headscarf to protect her hair from the humidity. She untied and tucked it into her collar. "I'm really sorry to drop in like this, but it's a small emergency. We're out of candles. I would've called you, but the power's out." 

"It's no problem," Nora replied. She took her coat. "I think I have another box to spare. Do you need a flashlight? I might have an extra."

"No thank you. Only the candles. I'll go out and replace whatever I use next time I go to the store."

"No need. They're pretty inexpensive."

Eileen caught sight of the jack-o'-lanterns. "Those are nice. Did you do them today? I think I can still smell pumpkin guts." She approached the island for a closer look while rubbing her hands together to stave off the chill. "The one on the right is impressive. I didn't know you could draw."

"I uh, used a stencil."

"Oh."

Nora led Eileen to the laundry room, illuminating the way with her flashlight. They heard no sound but the storm's wrath and no suspicious light seeped from beneath her bedroom's door. By placing the flashlight on the washing machine and aiming it at the ceiling, Nora flooded the room with abundant reflected light. She opened a cabinet and sorted through a few stacked containers. "How's Michael?" she asked.

"He's well," said Eileen. "Unluckily, we have some company over right now. We're watching Michael's niece and nephew. Ages twelve and eight, respectively."

"I bet this is fun for them." Nora found her box of plain unscented candles and shut the cabinet with her forearm. "A storm, a power outage? When I was their age I thought it was as good as camping."

"Well I wish they were more like you. They'd rather be watching television."

She presented the open box to Eileen and inquired, "Is this enough?"

"Yes, that's plenty. Thank you again, Nora. You're a life saver." Just as Eileen was about to receive the box, she hesitated upon noticing something. With strange trepidation, she completed the motion but was ultimately compelled to say aloud, "You're not wearing your ring."

Nora stammered a few syllables before explaining, "Oh, I... I, um, took it off to carve the pumpkins. Guess I left it on the table." In actuality, she had forgotten it in her skirt pocket while changing. That's where it was, thought Nora, tucked safely in her dresser. In her bedroom. Where Barbara was hiding. Looking up to meet Eileen's gaze was a mistake. Nora knew she could read her unease as plain as script, and that was all Eileen required to make an accusation. 

"She's here, isn't she?"

"Who?"

Eileen gave her a pointed look. "You know what? Good. I'm glad she's here." She raised her voice, ensuring anyone in the vicinity would overhear. "Now I can finally say what I've been meaning to say right to her face. That Barbara's acting like an irresponsible, self-indulgent child without any regard for consequence."

"Oh, _shut up_ , Eileen." They heard Barbara's voice along with the sound of the bedroom door brusquely opening. "So you come to Nora for help only to harass her the moment you see her doing something you don't like? Give me a break. Why don't you head home?" Barbara withdrew a cigarette from her pocket and lingered in the doorway of the laundry room, glaring at Eileen with unrelenting determination. 

"I'm not harassing Nora. I'm after _you_ ," Eileen emphasized with a jab of her index finger. 

"Why did you come out?" Nora turned to Barbara and clapped a hand to her forehead in distress. "God! So, what, you're allowed to expose us whenever you feel like overruling me? You can't just do that!" 

 _"You_ can't just tell someone and not tell me about it!" Barbara fired back. "What if she confronted me? Was I supposed to make a complete ass of myself denying it to cover yours?"

"Yes! Because I have _way_ more to lose!"

"Nora's right," interjected Eileen. "I can't believe you're doing this again! Didn't you learn anything the last time? In a few months am I going to get another call with you sobbing over how Nora's been battered or left and it's all your fault?"

"Nate would _never_ hurt me," Nora asserted, forgetting her disagreement with Barbara to address Eileen. "Even if he found out. He wouldn't."

"I've heard that a million times. Do you know what goes through a man's head after he's shot up people in war and expects to come home a hero, only to find out he's been displaced and deceived? He's spilled blood for nothing. Now he might spill more, because that's what he's been taught."

Barbara lit her cigarette and met Eileen's hard leer. "If fear of what _might_ happen is your only angle here, you'd best rethink your strategy."

"Then what about integrity? Morality?" Eileen looked at Nora to confirm she'd heard of such concepts, and that she wasn't the only sane person in the room from where she was standing. Nora didn't supply any reassurance. "Or am I just old-fashioned to think common decency still has value?"

"I know you don't like this," said Barbara. "I understand why you feel the need to meddle. But you're no saint. Stanley was a dishonest man and he didn't deserve you. But he also didn't deserve what you did to him. You made him miserable for two years because you knew you could. Because you knew he wasn't rotten to the core and he would stick around for a chance to ease his guilt. You kept tied together when it was obviously over. You offered hope when there wasn't any. You were so damn _spiteful_ , you decided you'd rather wallow in a loveless marriage for as long as you could hold out than set Stan free. You are not the arbiter of common decency. You just want to control people."

At first, Nora was afraid that Eileen was going to take a swing at Barbara, but she didn't. Her rage quivered and a shadow of grief overcame it. With great apparent effort, Eileen swallowed and said on a shaky voice, "Do what you want. Thank you, Nora. I'm going home."

* * *

Nora lied on her back, staring at the ceiling. It was past eleven and an ashtray on the headboard's shelf contained the butts of several cigarettes she and Barbara had finished smoking between them. The vase of blood-red carnations stood nearby, closer to the wall. It had been over an hour since the power came on but they had opted to blow out all the candles and retire to bed, held hostage by their thoughts. Barbara had asked Nora which side of the bed she routinely slept on, and assumed that spot herself. No further words were necessary to communicate her refusal to occupy Nate's side.  

For the first time in nearly thirty minutes, Barbara interrupted the silence by confessing, "You know, I was completely in the mood earlier, but Eileen ruined it. Now I can't stop thinking about her."

She turned onto her side to face Barbara, who was watching a tail of smoke curl off the end of a cigarette.

"She'd _better_ keep her mouth shut," said Barbara. "She'd _better_  not make a mess of this. You think I was harsh today? I know things about Eileen that would make Michael run for the hills." She brought the cigarette to her lips. Her eyes were a little reddened by exhaustion, or emotion. Or too much smoke. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything at all."

"At least it put an end to the debate," Nora supposed. "I was not prepared for that."

She handed over the cigarette. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine." After a long drag, Nora said, "Are you two going to be okay?"

"Probably. Might take some time, but we've fought before. Sometimes I get so sick of her overbearing _sanctimony_. I guess she gets sick of my pigheadedness, too."

"I just worry, since... You say you don't have many people."

Barbara's eyes found hers; red, tired, contemplative. "It'll be all right. People need to call each other out from time to time. Eileen surely needed it this time. She was way out of line, getting that personally involved."

"I can't believe her," Nora wearily agreed. "Talking to me about morality in _my_ house? What is this, catechism?" 

"Or confession," Barbara wryly added. "And she's the priest who goes home to binge drink and consume pornography. Ironically, I don't think Eileen does either. She's just the fucking priest." She accepted the cigarette when Nora offered it back. "But what do I know? I'm a Jew."

Nora scoffed in amusement. "No you're not."

The smile tugging at Barbara's lips verged on a laugh. "Tell me something else," she said. "Do you think people want to be good to feel superior to other people? Do you think religion makes people more inclined to do the right thing _because_ it's good, or because something bad will happen if you don't?"

A furrow appeared in Nora's brow as she shut her eyes and shook her head. "I don't want to think about any of that. I'm too tired."

"How about an easier question: what are your Halloween plans?"

"I'll be busy," said Nora. "It's on a Thursday this year. I have an appointment that morning, too, with an optometrist."

"Good for you." 

"And maybe a new client." Nora summoned her courage. She wanted to do good not because religion, Eileen, or guilt had prescribed it, but because she wanted to be better than she was currently. For no one's pleasure but her own. She also wanted to be richer than she was currently. "I have to tell you something," she said. "It's about Jane."  


End file.
